Shh, Berlin is Listening
by L. E. Wigman
Summary: Colonel Joe Gallagher of the Nine-Eighteenth Bomb Group has received orders to destroy a target in Hammelburg, Germany... Just another routine mission, right? Well...
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I do not own ' _Hogan's Heroes_ ' or ' _Twelve O'clock High_ ', the only thing I own is this story's plot. All rights belong to their respective owners and creators.  
** **This work is complete fiction and any resemblance to actual people or missions (unless specifically stated in the Author's Notes) is coincidental.**

 _ **Author's Note 1:  
**_ _ **The time period for this story would be early March of 1944, about three months before the D-Day Invasion. The Allies have won in Africa and would be making great gains in Italy, who surrendered in 1943.**_ _ **The USAAF would be operating in conjunction with the RAF on Operation Pointblank; with the British bombing at night and the Americans by day.  
**_ _ **As for our Heroes, I'm plotting this as a few months after Kinchloe 'left'. I don't really want to touch on why he left or where he went, so use some good old imagination!**_ _ **Onward…**_

* * *

 _ **ACT I**_

 **ARCHBURY ARMY AIR FIELD, ENGLAND**

"Where is he?" Major General Edward Britt muttered, pacing the short length of the narrow walkway on top of the watch tower. General Britt was down from Wing Command in London. He'd been here almost an hour and was growing a little bit more impatient with every minute that ticked by.

"I don't think he'll be too much longer," Major Harvey Stovall assured him. _If nothing went wrong,_ he added to himself.

The 'he' in question was Colonel Joseph Gallagher, commander of the Nine-Eighteenth bomb group. He and his group had taken off before dawn that morning on a daylight bombing run to Duisburg, Germany. Though many considered this mission easy, Harvey knew all too well that the easiest missions sometimes ended up the costliest.

"Here they come, sir," one of the young corporals from the watch tower said and pointed east.

Harvey and General Britt brought their binoculars up, searching the clear sky. A moment later they picked out a group of tiny black dots. A quick count showed that seventeen out of eighteen planes had come home.

On paper that wasn't too bad of a loss, but for the close-knit group of men that made up the Nine-Eighteenth, even losing one plane was devastating. Harvey closed his eyes for a moment, selfishly wondering if he knew any of them. He opened his eyes after a moment and continued to search for one specific plane.

"There's the Piccadilly," he remarked, the relief in his voice evident. "Do you want me to go get Colonel Gallagher?"

General Britt nodded, "tell him I'll be waiting in his office."

Harvey followed the General down the steps and watched him get into the staff car. Once he had driven away, Harvey got into his jeep and drove over to the runway. The Colonel's plane had just landed and was taxiing to the side to make room for the rest of the group.

Harvey pulled closer when the Piccadilly Lily parked and shut off her engines. The hatch dropped down and Colonel Gallagher jumped out, giving orders to his ground crew to check several of the instruments, as well as the number two engine. Harvey waited until Gallagher was finished and on his way to the jeep before speaking, "how'd it go, Joe?"

He straightened his cap and sighed, "it could've gone better, but Duisburg won't be producing steel for a little while." He climbed into the jeep and dug a small notebook out of his pocket, "The Boston Boss ditched in the Channel, get Air-Sea Rescue out to pick up the crew. We counted ten parachutes."

"Yes, sir," Harvey took the notebook and set the jeep into gear, "General Britt is waiting for you in your office."

As they drove across the base, Harvey noticed how tired Joe looked. The Nine- eighteenth had been running for three weeks without an order to stand down. In his opinion, if Joe didn't get a rest, he was headed for a breakdown. He pulled up in front of the office building and climbed out of the jeep.

Gallagher followed him, but at a slower pace and all while suppressing a yawn. He pulled the flight gear from around his neck and dropped it into a chair beside Harvey's desk. "Take care of that, will you?" he asked as he rubbed his eyes.

Harvey grabbed the phone and asked the operator for Air-Sea rescue. "I made a pot of coffee in your office," he said, although he could help but think that ten hours of solid sleep would be better for the Colonel.

Gallagher nodded, appreciatively. He straightened his clothes and hair before stepping into the inner office.

He spotted General Britt seated behind his desk with his back to the door. He was staring out the window. Gallagher stepped up to the desk and saluted, "General."

Britt turned toward him, but remained seated, "at ease, Joe."

Gallagher relaxed and moved toward the stove. He grabbed the coffee pot and poured himself a cup. "Coffee, sir?" he asked. As Britt shook his head, Joe replaced the pot and went back to the front of his desk. He sipped his strong, black coffee and sat, waiting for the General to explain why he was there.

"An important mission just came down from the top," Britt started slowly, absentmindedly spinning his cane. "And, in my judgment, you're the best one for the job."

"When?" Gallagher asked, bracing himself for a quarrel. He'd promised the men passes when they came back from this mission. The passes were only good for one night, but it was the first break they'd seen in some time. He wasn't about to give that up without a fight.

"The sooner the better," Britt stated. "You should know that this is a voluntary mission."

Gallagher frowned, as much as he hated to admit it, he was tired and this mission sounded like it would be a challenge. "General, the men haven't been rotated back in three weeks. The planes haven't been properly serviced in two months… Sir, my men are just plain beat."

Britt leaned back in the chair and used his cane to prop his wooden leg on the desk, "Just hear me out, Joe. RAF had it originally, but couldn't get it done. They were… too hesitant."

"Surely, if it's a voluntary mission for us, it would be for them," Gallagher said. Although he decided against the mission, he couldn't help having his curiosity piqued.

"It was…" Britt hesitated, wanting to choose his words carefully, "but there are certain factors that make this mission tricky. Do you have a map of Germany?"

Gallagher stood and quickly retrieved the map from the table behind him. After moving some of the items off of his desk, he spread out the map. Britt took a moment to read it before pointing to a small town in the middle of Germany. "Hammelburg," Gallagher read.

"Right outside of this town is a petroleum refinery," Britt's blue eyes met and held Gallagher's green ones. "They make many different forms of fuel, but their biggest product is aviation fuel. It's centralized location enables it to easily supply most of the area…"

"But?" Gallagher pressed causing Britt to look away, uncomfortably. "There has to be a 'but' in here somewhere."

"The refinery is very big. Past attempts have disrupted the flow, but they get it back up and running in less than a week." Britt sighed, "because of its massive lay out, we'll need to do a heavy, saturated bomb run."

"Forgive me, General," Gallagher said, sick of beating around the bush. "But, everything you've told me doesn't exactly explain why the RAF had a hard time or what classifies it as a suicide mission."

Britt shook his head, "it isn't a suicide mission." He picked up a pencil and put an ex on the map then a little bit further down and off to the right, he placed a second ex. "The top ex is the refinery. The bottom is Luft-Stalag Thirteen."

"A POW camp?" Gallagher sat down and rubbed the back of his neck. _No wonder they couldn't find anyone to take it,_ he thought. He knew as well as anyone that prison camps could hold several hundred to a thousand prisoners, depending on their size. He also knew that bombing the target that close to a camp would be incredibly tricky.

"The RAF ended up bombing too far north," Britt explained. "They hit the northern part of the complex, but leave the main part with little or no damage. Group Captain Sherburne gave an impassioned speech to Command, on behalf of all the RAF group commanders, about how it shouldn't be done… that we had no right to bomb our own men."

"So they kicked it to us?" Gallagher interrupted, more than a little irritated that all the dirty jobs ended up in his lap. "What happens if we refuse it or if you can't find an American wing to take it?"

"The refinery needs to be destroyed," Britt asserted. "If we can't find a volunteer, we'll make it a direct order."

"So, the voluntary status of this mission is just to assuage the consciences of the higher-ups?"

Britt cracked a humorless smile, "Something like that. Honestly, Joe, something like this can can tear up a man, not to mention what it will do to his command." He paused, "I picked you as my first man to ask because I think you have what it takes to do this and pull through with your command intact. I can't say that about too many others."

Gallagher chewed on his lower lip as he leaned over to study the map. "There are too many obstacles, like flack and fighters, to make a run during the day," he mused. "But, if the weather holds, I can take a group carrying a heavy payload and knock it out tomorrow night."

"And the camp?" Britt questioned.

"Don't even factor it in," Gallagher explained. "We'll do precision bombing, but if we spend too much time focusing on not hitting it, we'll wind up like the RAF and hit too far north. The only way to hit the refinery is to focus only on the refinery."

"Joe, if you fail and hit too far south, you'll wipe out a prison camp filled with hundreds of Brits, Frenchmen, and Americans."

"Are you trying to talk me out of it?" Gallagher asked with the hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "I thought you wanted me to take this mission."

"I just want you to understand what will happen if you take out any part of that camp," Britt said, seriously. He stood and walked around the desk, stopping in front of Gallagher. "The Nazis will use it as propaganda, not just in their country but in England and the US… and it's likely that they'll use it to try and flip other POWs."

"Yes, sir," Gallagher said. "The cover of night will allow us to miss most of the flak and fighters, as long as we aren't picked up on radar. If we can get the exact location of the target, we _can_ destroy it." He swallowed the last of his coffee, briefly wishing it was something stronger. "If we're going to hit the camp anyway, we can at least make sure to completely demolish the intended target."

"Okay, Joe," Britt limped over to the door with Gallagher right behind him. "Pick your men and I'll have Group Captain Sherburne send a complete report down this afternoon."

As soon as the general stepped out of the outer office, Gallagher turned to his adjutant. "Harvey, cancel all passes. We have a mission for tomorrow night."

 **STALAG THIRTEEN, GERMANY**

Sergeant Richard Baker listened to the steady beeping coming in over the wire; his competent hands quickly translating the Morse code into written words. Much like every message they received, it was nonsensical until decrypted with the code book. But Baker had a feeling that he already knew its contents. London repeated the message and Baker tapped out an acknowledgment.

He climbed the ladder and bumped into Sergeant Andrew Carter, who quickly apologized, "sorry, buddy. I was just coming down to get you for roll call."

Baker climbed out of the bunk-bed entrance and slapped the trigger. The bed dropped down into place as he said, "we've got another message from London."

"About that refinery?" Carter questioned, following him with Corporals Louis LeBeau and Peter Newkirk close at his heels.

"I can't imagine it would be about anything else," Baker called over his shoulder as he approached the officer's quarters. He knocked softly and said, "message from London, Colonel."

Colonel Robert Hogan opened the door and grabbed the clipboard out of Baker's hands. He pulled a book off the shelf and compared its contents to the message. "They're planning another run on the refinery," he read aloud, seeing that Baker and the others had followed him into the office.

"I'm not sure why they bother," LeBeau said in an uncommon bout of cynicism. "They'll only end up hitting that northern end… or us!"

Hogan finished reading the message and began to pace. The refinery had been a high profile target for weeks. The entire Hammelburg Underground had tried to destroy it, not to mention London's bombings.

"Hey," Carter brightened, "why couldn't we try sabotaging it again? I mean, that way London won't have to do a raid."

"Because we already tried," Newkirk said, flatly. "We almost got caught that first time and the last two times we were about as effective as those air raids." He leaned against the bunk post, "I have all the faith in the world that third time's the charm for me boys."

Hogan sat down at his desk, "It not the RAF, it's the Americans."

"Why'd they kick it over?" Baker gave voice to the question they were all were wondering.

Hogan shrugged, "that doesn't matter. What does matter is that we finish shoring up the tunnels. The last thing we need is a tunnel caving in after they bomb."

"Oui," LeBeau grimaced, "wouldn't that be a nice, little present for Hochstetter."

"They won't be here until tomorrow night," Hogan said, looking at his watch. "So, after roll call, I want everyone in the tunnels with all the spare wood they can find. Finish bracing the main tunnels then, if we still have more wood, move on to the others."

"Schultz is coming," Sergeant Olsen said, sticking his head in the doorway.

Hogan grabbed his bomber jacket off the back of the chair and motioned the rest of them out. He finished zipping up his jacket when a big man with white hair opened the barracks door.

"Line up for a head count," he said, before he'd even stepped completely into the room.

"We aren't doing roll call?" Hogan asked in surprise.

"The kommandant gave orders that all prisoners were to remain in the barracks and that barracks guards were to do a head count."

"Not that I don't appreciate not having to go outside in this chill," Hogan said as he fell into his spot in front of his office door, "But why is our kommandant so gracious? What's going on outside that he doesn't want us to see?"

"I don't know," he began counting. Hogan gave LeBeau a nod and the Frenchman produced a chocolate bar from his pocket. He quickly unwrapped it, broke off a chunk, and plopped it in his mouth. Schultz, as predicted, stopped counting and licked his lips, staring greedily at the remaining chocolate.

"What's going on that Klink doesn't want us to see?" Hogan asked again.

"They're moving all of the fuel and essential materials from the refinery," Schultz spilled, quickly eating the piece LeBeau broke off for him. "They'll be moving it right past the Stalag on their way to Wurzburg."

Newkirk and Carter shared a look as Hogan pressed for more information, "why are the moving everything?"

Schultz hesitated, "I shouldn't be telling you this."

"But?" LeBeau gave him the rest of the chocolate bar and produced two more from his footlocker.

Schultz considered this for less than a minute before snatching the chocolate and slipping it into his pocket. "The Kommandant had me drive him to the Hofbrau for an early dinner. He met three officers there, one was Gestapo and the other two were Luftwaffe."

"But the Gestapo man wasn't Major Hochstetter?" Hogan asked, surprised that the commanding officer of the Hammelburg station wasn't present at such a meeting.

"Nein," Schultz's eyes darted between LeBeau and the footlocker, as if expecting more chocolate. "The Gestapo man was lower in rank."

"What was the meeting about?"

Schultz chuckled, "I wasn't part of the meeting and it isn't polite to eavesdrop." Hogan nodded to LeBeau who produced another bar. He took the chocolate and amended, "well, I might have heard a thing or two."

"They were telling the Kommandant to be on alert, that a bombing raid was coming in the next day or two," Schultz glanced over his shoulder as if he expected to see a Gestapo agent behind him. "The Luftwaffe are moving in two or three staffeln* of fighters and when the Amerikaner schweine show their filthy faces they will be sent to the ground in fiery rubble..." he paused. Noticing the raised eyebrows and less than amused faces, he blushed. "That is what they said."

Hogan's mind worked quickly, putting the pieces together as he pushed the portly guard to the door. "Thanks, Schultz,"

"Wait!" he shouted before they could close the door. "My head count."

"Everyone's here, Schultz," Hogan assured him and shut the door. Turning back to his men, he hurriedly gave out orders. "Baker, get on the radio and tell London that Papa Bear wants to speak with Big Bad Wolf and _only_ Big Bad Wolf."

Baker nodded, his expression was mixed between worry and confusion, and it mirrored those of the rest of the Heroes. Hogan then directed his attention to their demolitions expert, "I need you to get together enough explosive packs and timers to take out all of that fuel and the machinery."

"Yes, sir," Carter said, for once without any questions, as he quickly followed Baker underground.

"Are we going to Wurzburg, mon Colonel?" LeBeau asked.

Hogan shook his head, "the best thing we have going for us is that they're moving quickly so they'll be sloppier than usual."

"What's the plan then?" Newkirk asked, "just throw the packs at 'em? 'Cause last time I looked, they don't go over a bridge or anything."

"But they do stop at check points," Hogan reminded him. "You, Carter, and LeBeau will replace the guards and when the trucks stop, they get an explosive pack. Set the timers a couple of hours forward and the trucks should all be together when they blow."

"If the krauts don't find 'em first," the resident pessimist, grumbled.

Hogan ignored the remark and ordered them to get to work. He climbed down into the radio room with Baker, "Any luck?" Baker shook his head, but kept trying as Hogan began to pace and think. No matter how many ways he looked at it, there was only one reason why the Nazis would have had that information before he did. _There's a leak,_ _somewhere.. possibly even_ _high up in London operations…_

 _ **TBC**_

* * *

 _ **Author's Note 2:**_

 _Hello, readers! This is the evil, little plot bunny that has hindered me from completing 'December Nightmare'. I've been dying to share it with you, but resisted in the hopes that I would finish it first. I'm almost done, so I gave into temptation and posted._

 _This is my first crossover and I hope you enjoy it. Cheers!_

 ***Staffln is the plural of staffl, which is the Luftwaffe equivalent of a squadron. It usually contained nine to twelve aircraft, but could hold as many as sixteen.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I do not own 'Hogan's Heroes' or 'Twelve O'clock High', the only thing I own is the plot. All rights belong to their respective owners and creators.  
** **This work is complete fiction and any resemblance to actual people or missions (unless specifically stated) is coincidental.**

* * *

 _He climbed down into the radio room with Baker, "Any luck?"_

 _Baker shook his head, but kept trying as Hogan began to pace and think. No matter how many ways he looked at it, there was only one reason why the Nazis would have had that information before he did. There's a leak, somewhere.. possibly even high up in London operations…_

 _ **Act II**_

Hogan had been wandering the tunnels aimlessly. He'd only stopped pacing once to wish the other heroes, who were dressed in their phony German uniforms, luck on their mission then he was back to pacing.  
London was unavailable and that did little to ease his worry. Worry, which in turn, fueled his restless movements. He ran a hand through his mussed hair and wondered how many gray hairs he'd gain tonight. If this kept up then at the end of the war, he'd be all salt and no pepper.

"Sir!" Baker called out, interrupting his train of thought. "I finally got London."

Hogan hurried over and sat on the edge of the table, "do they have Big Bad Wolf?"

Baker listened to the tapping on the radio, "they say he's in bed with orders not to be disturbed. They want to know if you'll speak to the Butcher."

Hogan frowned as he tried to remember who was code-named 'Butcher'. When the name wouldn't come to him, he shook his head. "Tell London that I need to speak with Big Bad Wolf directly. Wake him up."

Hogan resumed pacing. _If there is a spy in London, it's better_ _to be_ _safe than sorry,_ he reasoned. He knew how damaging a leak could be, especially at this stage of the game.

The Nazis had been halted on the Eastern Front years ago and the Soviets had pushed them almost completely out of the Ukraine. Any military strategist worth his salt knew that invasion by the Western Allies was coming. That's why Germany ratcheted up their production lines to produce more tanks, aircraft, and munitions than ever. That's also why the fuel refinery was such a major target.  
The way things stood, there was a delicate balance between the two forces and one edge might be all that was needed to determine the winner.

"Well?" Hogan asked, more sharply than he'd intended, as his pacing led him back to the radio.

Baker shook his head, "they aren't responding any more."

Hogan glanced at his watch and began to think, "when's shift change?"

"Sir?"

"Kinch always said that each telegrapher has their own distinguishable sound," Hogan said, sincerely hoping that this was true.

"Yes, sir, everyone's touch is different," Baker confirmed as he caught on to Hogan's line of thinking. "I usually pick up a new hand after roll call, so they probably switch out every four to six hours… you don't think they're purposely trying to prevent communication with Big Bad Wolf, do you?"

Hogan scratched the stubble on his cheek, "I don't know. It might not be the telegrapher, but perhaps their commander. I do know that I've never had trouble getting in touch with him before."

"You think there's a traitor in London operations?" Baker asked. He had been pondering that possibility since they'd spoken with Schultz, but the idea that the people he was in contact with daily could possibly be traitors made him apprehensive.

"Maybe or maybe not," Hogan replied. "Could be a leak, instead. Some guy… or girl, had a date and bragged about something they shouldn't have and that got back to Germany."

"And not connecting us with Big Bad Wolf?" Baker asked. He wanted to believe that it was just a leak, but deep down, he had a nagging feeling that it was a spy.

Hogan shrugged, "maybe a new officer who doesn't want to get him outta bed."

He grinned, "Trust me, Big Bad Wolf didn't get his code name for being a sweetheart. This is probably just a coincidence, but we need to play it safe, just in case it isn't."

Baker thought about that for a few moments. This operation had been up and running at full speed for over two years. It was nothing short of a miracle that they hadn't been caught. However, if there was a spy, why hadn't he alerted the Gestapo to their little ring?

"We'll try again after roll call."

"You want me to wait for the boys?" Baker asked. He already knew that Hogan would want to do that himself, but it didn't hurt to offer. Hogan shook his head and sent the sergeant on his way.

Hogan took Baker's vacated seat and scrunched down in the chair, extending his legs out in a relaxed, but still semi-alert manner. _I'm not likely to get more than a nap, anyway,_ he thought as he checked the time.

 **TOH~HH**

Harvey wasn't the least bit surprised that the Colonel was still in his office when he came in the next morning. The Major had withdrawn to his quarters just after midnight, leaving Gallagher to finish up the mission plan with Group Captain Sherburne. Sherburne, to everyone's surprise, had arrived shortly after suppertime to deliver his report orally.

Harvey stepped into the Colonel's office and began the difficult process of dragging him away from his work. It took almost twenty minutes to convince Gallagher that he wouldn't be fit to fly without sleep.

First, he'd protested that the duty roster still needed filled out, but Harvey assured him that he could finish the roster, while Gallagher slept, and have it posted within the hour.  
Then he tried to argue that the mission required some tweaks. Sherburne said the mission was as put together as it could be and that he was going to bed. Gallagher watched him leave, still hesitant when Harvey reminded him that Doc Kaiser would have no choice but to ground any pilot who tried to run a mission on no sleep.

Finally, seeing that there was no use in arguing, he agreed to lay down. But not before giving Harvey strict instructions to wake him up at 15:00 hours. Harvey followed his commander into the outer office and settled into his chair while Gallagher headed for the officer's quarters.

As the group's Adjutant, Harvey knew the men and Colonel Gallagher almost as well as the back of his hand. He knew the people Joe liked to fly with, as well as those he'd rather not have in his group on a sensitive or difficult mission. Knowing all of this, he quickly settled on the men and began to fill out the flight roster, so it could be posted.

"Sorry, I'm late," Sergeant Alexander Komansky said as he came through the door an hour later. His brown hair was a little disheveled and he wore an apologetic smile. Komansky was the Colonel's flight engineer and friend. Well, as good a friend as an officer and an enlisted man could be. "Ground chief wanted to know a few things about how the Lily was flying."

Harvey gave him a hint of a smile, "don't worry, Sandy, the Colonel isn't in. He spent all night on mission prep and only went to lay down a little while ago."

Komansky looked relieved as he dropped into his own chair by the door. The Colonel had been plotting this mission since Komansky had come back from debriefing, but he hadn't shared any details. Then that limey officer showed up and they'd shut themselves away in the Colonel's office. Komansky pulled the paperwork from his drawer and tried to dig right in, knowing that Harvey was rarely in the mood for superfluous conversation, but there was something gnawing at him.

 _What's so special about this mission?_ Sure, General Britt had delivered orders in person before, but the Colonel seemed concerned about this one. He couldn't put his finger on what was different.

"Major Stovall," Komansky began, his curiosity finally getting the better of him. "Is there something I need to know about this run? Something special, I mean."

Harvey kept his head down over the typewriter. He was typing out the orders for the bulletin board with the hunt and peck method. "Such as?" he asked, distractedly.

Komansky shuffled through his paperwork. If there was one thing Harvey was good at, it was keeping a confidence. You'd have to be in order to handle military secrets every day, Komansky supposed… but if there was something he needed to know then doggone it, he wanted to know.

"Is there something particularly dangerous about it?"

Harvey let out a small chuckle, "it's a war, Sandy… all these missions are dangerous."

"I know that!" Komansky snapped, jumping up from his desk and crossing the room, "but, I get the feeling that there's something more to this mission. Something I'm not gonna like."

Harvey looked up. Losing his cool was not uncommon for the quick tempered sergeant, but this was dangerously close to crossing a line. "If there is anything you _need_ to know," he said, keeping his voice even. "I'm sure the Colonel will include it in mission briefing. As for whether you'll like it… the Army doesn't much care what you like or don't like. Now, I suggest you finish your work,"

Harvey grabbed the duty roster and pushed his way past Komansky. "Maybe after lunch, you should lay down for a nap, too. You're on the Colonel's crew." he tossed the last bit over his shoulder before shutting the door behind him.

 **TOH~HH**

"This had better be good, Papa Bear," Lieutenant General William Pritchard, growled into the microphone. It was just after two o'clock and he had been in conference with his own superiors since breakfast. Pressure was being exerted to get results and get them quickly. The last thing he wanted to deal with was the outrageous commander of their biggest espionage unit in Germany.

" _Are you completely alone, sir?"_

"Yes, go ahead," Pritchard barked, his patience wearing thin.

" _Sir, I'm afraid that there might be a leak in your backyard. Krauts are prepping for a party in the Hammelburg area and they seem adamant about their source, over."_

Pritchard straightened, his annoyance replaced with concern. "Are you sure about that, Papa Bear?"

" _Affirmative. Krauts are bringing two or three dozen doughnuts. Suggest you postpone the party to a later date, over."_

Pritchard became suspicious, "this wouldn't be a ploy, would it? I understand you have baby bears caught up in the party."

" _Negative, I'm alerting you to complications with the party. You decide how you want to proceed."_

Even over the staticky white noise, Pritchard could hear the indignance. "Okay, Papa Bear, apologies, but if you're right we need to deal with this quickly," he paused as an idea started to form _._ "Papa Bear, have your man stand-by. I may need you later."

" _Roger, we're standing-by."_

Pritchard shut off the radio before he strode over to the door and yanked it open. He'd expected to find someone at the door eavesdropping, but they were all at the other end of the office. They were curious, he could tell, but they'd also been in this business for quite awhile and knew better than to ask questions. His adjutant, Captain Carmichael, hurried over to him.

"You may resume your duties," Pritchard told the British communications officers as he cleared the doorway before hurrying down the hallway.

He didn't say anything to Carmichael until the elevator door closed, "Jack, we're going to drive back to my office and dismiss Miss Ellery," he kept his voice low, so that only the two of them could hear. "Then I want you to go to find Bob Kinney."

"Of CIC?" Carmichael's voice raised in surprise.

"Quietly," Pritchard hissed with a quick glance toward the elevator operator. "I don't want anyone else to know."

The car ride back to his office was eerily silent. Not that Pritchard was usually a chatterbox, but he would always asked how Miss Ellery, their British driver, was. Uncomfortable with the silence, she attempted to initiate conversation. But, much to her disappointment, she received only monosyllabic replies from Carmichael.

Pritchard, for his part, wasn't intending to be rude. He just had a lot of things on his mind. He'd been fleshing out his plan for uncovering this mole and wondering who he could trust to bring in. _I trust Carmichael_ _completely_ _,_ he thought, watching the streets of London pass-by from the car window. _And of course, Bob… but_ _how do I know if I can_ _trust anyone else?_ _What if this is much bigger than I th_ _ink_ _?  
_ An image of their operation in Germany flashed through his mind… _What if the Nazis have their own Rob Hogan?_ He shuddered at that horrifying thought before dismissing it. _One Rob Hogan is more than enough for this war and thank goodness he's on the right side._

"I think that will be all for today, Miss Ellery," Carmichael said, as they pulled up to their building. The two officers got out with Pritchard heading up to his office, while Carmichael waved Miss Ellery on. Once she was out of sight, he set out for the Savoy.

"Good morning, General," the receptionist chirped. Her breathy, New England accent and bright smile did little to calm his nerves.

He managed to return her smile, hoping he didn't appear as anxious as he felt, "Morning, Addie. Have their been any calls for me?"

She dug out her message pad and read through the messages, "Not for you, but Captain Carmichael received a wire from the home. I think his wife must've had the baby." A real smile crossed his face as she looked at the door behind him, adding, "I could have sworn he left with you."

"I had him run an errand," Pritchard replied. "I'm sure he'll be quiet pleased. Hold all my calls, Addie. I don't wish to be disturbed."

She gave him a cheerful, 'yes, sir', as he walked toward the elevator. Each and ever person came to attention when they spotted him. He knew all of them by name, a number of them he knew well enough to consider them friends. How any of them could be an enemy agent?

True, most of them had access to the information about tonight's mission… and it certainly wouldn't be hard to slip away without being noticed… _Stop that,_ Pritchard chastised himself, before stepping onto the elevator. _Being cautious is one thing, falling into senseless paranoia is another._

In the twenty minutes it took for Carmichael to return with Bob Kinney, Pritchard had worked himself up and then calmed himself back down, several times. He could hardly contain his relief when he spotted the younger men coming into the outer office.

"Bob," Pritchard greeted as he stood and went around his desk to shake Kinney's hand. He showed the civilian to his office before turning to Carmichael, "Keep watch on the door, Jack. I don't want anyone to listen in or to interrupt us." Carmichael nodded and stayed in the outer room.

Pritchard shut the office door and motioned Kinney to sit. He took his own chair and offered a weak smile, "I'm glad you came."

Kinney tossed his panama hat into the other chair as he sat. Without his hat, his wavy blond hair fell across his forehead causing him to look much younger than his thirty years. "Captain Carmichael said it was urgent, but wouldn't tell me what was up," he tapped the arm of his chair with his finger as he studied the General's office. "I presume this isn't a social call."

Kinney listened carefully as Pritchard explained. The longer the General talked the more Kinney could tell that he was jumping between two possibilities. There was no mole, Papa Bear was mistaken and there was a sensible explanation for the Germans' actions… or the mole was the only sensible explanation for the Germans' actions.

"This Papa Bear," Kinney began, "is he a reliable source? Sometimes German informants turn out to be double-agents. Is it possible that the Abwehr are releasing bad information through him?"

Pritchard chuckled, "Not unless they managed to flip one of our own."

Kinney wasn't amused. "It's happened before," he said, gravely.

Pritchard's smile faded as he sobered, "I know it has, but not with Rob. His father and I served together in the last war." He nursed his coffee mug, "I was one of the first people young Rob told when he decided on going to Texas for the aviation program…"

"Anyhow, Rob is as trustworthy as they come," Pritchard concluded, clearing his throat when he realized that he'd been reminiscing. "I was hoping that you would look into it. This is your line of work, not mine… but if you have a suspect, I was thinking we can confirm it by releasing fake information and seeing if it makes it's way to Rob."

Kinney's eyes twinkled with mischief, "It might not be your line, but your instincts are spot on. I just have one minor change. Instead of using the phony information to confirm our mole, we'll use it to smoke him out." He pointed to the phone, "but first, I want you to call off this mission."

"I was going to do that anyway," Pritchard grabbed the phone. "I have to let Ed in on the leak."

"No, the fewer people who know the better," Kinney said. "Just tell him the mission is postponed until further notice and that will give me time to set up my trap." Seeing the General's grim expression, he added, "This should be resolved in a next week, two at the latest. Just relax and continue your normal routine, okay?" Kinney stood and scooped up his hat.

Pritchard nodded waiting for the agent to shut the door before picking up the phone. He asked the operator to put him in touch with General Britt and to scramble the call.

" _Ed Britt."_

"Hello, Ed, it's Bill," Pritchard focused all his attention on keeping a normal tone of voice. "We need to postpone that run over Hammelburg."

" _I don't understand,"_ Pritchard could almost see the frown on his friend's face. " _I thought knocking out that refinery was top priority?"_

Britt's voice crackled on the line. Pritchard hesitated, wondering if someone was listening in on his call. "I'm postponing it until a later date," Pritchard said, more tersely than was necessary. "You will scrub the mission and that's an order!"

He barely waited for Britt to acknowledge before hanging up. He placed his elbows on his desk and rubbed his temples. _You scrambled the call, everything is fine,_ he told himself.

 _Just relax,_ he repeated Kinney's words. _Normal routine._

 **TOH~HH**

"Ten-hut!"

The steady hum of conversation halted almost immediately as the men stood and snapped to attention. Gallagher closed the door behind him, walked down the center aisle and up the steps to the platform. He looked over the men and admired Harvey's selection before giving the at-ease order. The men resumed their seats on the long benches the lined the briefing hut.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen." Gallagher began by taking the pointer Harvey offered, "Our mission today is Hammelburg." He indicated the tiny town on the map, "more specifically, a refinery located a mile east of Hammelburg."

He turned back to the men, "This refinery is one of the biggest producers of aviation fuel for the Luftwaffe. Its strategic size and location enable it to serve the Nazis well. I cannot stress how important this target is."

The men listened intently, taking notes as Gallagher laid out their course. He went over the reports of previous missions which stated that flack along their route was manageable and fighter activity was low. He finished his briefing by stating that, although this mission had been attempted twice before, he had confidence that this would be their last attempt and it would be successful. He handed the briefing to the weather officer, who explained the high and low fronts and the effects they would have on the mission.

Sherburne only half listened to the weather officer. He was more than a little confused. _Surely, he was going to warn them about Stalag Thirteen…_

He glanced over to Gallagher, who had taken the seat beside his. "Shall I brief them on the camp and the RAF's tactic?" he asked, quietly.

Gallagher shook his head ever so slightly, "That won't be necessary, Group Captain." He stood and looked at his watch. Addressing the men, he added, "Takeoff is set for seventeen hundred hours. Dismissed."

The hum of conversation resumed as the men began to shuffle out. Each pilot heading to the airfield to look over their planes and do specific flight planning with their crews.

Sherburne glared at him. "What was that?" he hissed, "you didn't tell them to be cautious… that hundreds of our boys might be in the cross hairs. You stupid Yanks will bomb the dickens out of them."

"This isn't an RAF mission," Gallagher replied, stiffly. "This will be done with my crew and it will be done my way. Now, if you don't have anything further to say, why don't you let _this_ stupid Yank finish _your_ job?"

"I won't have you bombing those men," Sherburne narrowed his eyes and wagged his finger in the American's face. "I'll get this stopped, you mark my words. I'll get this stopped!"

He marched down the middle aisle, making no effort to conceal his anger as he slammed the door shut. Gallagher winced at the sound and cursed under his breath. _You and your temper,_ he thought with a sigh. He caught sight of Harvey out of the corner of his eye.

Harvey was quite possibly the best Adjutant with whom Gallagher had ever worked. He'd been with the Nine-Eighteenth longer than even General Savage.

He kept the office running smoothly, making sure that the enormous amount of paperwork was always completed. He took enough weight off Gallagher's shoulders so that managing this group didn't crush the young commanding officer. But most importantly, he was at times Gallagher's quiet conscience. Right now, that conscience was working him over.

"You agree with Sherburne that I should've told them about the camp?" Gallagher prodded. Harvey didn't say a word as he gathered up the papers from the briefing. "Suppose I had told them, what then?" Gallagher continued, although he wasn't sure if he was trying to convince Harvey or himself. "The bombardiers would have that in their minds when they bomb… You tell me, would you like to have that responsibility weighing on your mind?"

Harvey stayed silent, but the pointed look he was giving said everything. Gallagher looked away, "They'll do the mission, Harvey. Whether the Nine-Eighteenth carries it out or not, London will get somebody to destroy that refinery."

"I never said not to do the mission," Harvey spoke carefully. Unlike Sherburne, he wanted to convey his point in the least combative way possible. "But if they come back feeling like the king on top of the mountain and then the press and public work them over for killing comrades that they didn't even know were down there… they'll take it out on you."

Gallagher rubbed his temples with the palms of his hands. "Yes, they will," he agreed, "but if I tell them and they take it into account… they'll miss."

"You don't know that," Harvey challenged.

"Yes, I do," Gallagher insisted. "No one wants to be responsible for getting their comrades killed. Whether consciously or unconsciously, they'll miss. London will have my head and we'll have to do this run all over again. We're knocking it out and knocking it out tonight… the least I can do is give them a little bit of moral deniability."

"And where do you get some of that?" Harvey asked, softly causing Gallagher to look at the floor. "Let me fly with you, Joe," he asked, hopefully. "I'll switch out with O'Brien and fly co-pilot."

Gallagher gave him a weary smile, "We both know your night vision isn't what it used to be."

He looked at his watch, "I'd better get going, but thanks, Harvey."

He was almost at the door when he turned back, "Maybe get some passes ready for the men. We're sure to get some down time when we get back."

"Yes, sir," Harvey said, dutifully as the door closed behind the Colonel. He placed the papers he'd gathered into a briefcase and went back to the office. He would normally watch the men take-off, but he just couldn't. Maybe he was being melodramatic or letting his imagination run away with him, but he had a sickening feeling that when the group got back, nothing would be the same.

He'd been with the Nine-Eighteenth under Colonel Davenport's command, when morale was so low that they were the most undisciplined group in the Air Corps. Davenport wasn't a terrible commander, he was just too easy-going. All of that changed when General Frank Savage took over.  
His strict, but sometimes abrasive, demeanor made short work of the discipline problem and in time, gained him the trust and respect of his men. There were a few wrinkles after Joe had taken over, but they ironed out easily as he settled into the job. They had some moments of lower morale, but nothing like Davenport's command.

He settled into his desk and made the conscious decision not to think about Joe, the mission, or the inevitable repercussions. He had paperwork to do… It wasn't his job to fly planes anymore, just this desk. His days flying detestable missions were over when the last war ended. They didn't need an old fogy like him gumming up the works. Yes, they were more likely to succeed without him.  
He managed to convince himself to focus on the work and was only briefly aware of the planes taking-off.

He was working on filling out the passes for the returning crews, when he heard the door open. Without looking up, he said sharply, "Not now, can't you see that I have a mountain of paperwork to do?"

"I understand that the Army insists on having paperwork done, but not at the exclusion of answering phone calls!"

"General Britt," Harvey shot to his feet and saluted. "I'm sorry, sir, I didn't realize it was you."

Britt limped up to Harvey's desk, "You would have if you had answered that blasted phone."

Harvey frowned, he'd been caught up in work, but he was positive the phone had not rung. "I received no calls." Britt ignored his comment, instead asking where the Colonel was. "He's on the Hammelburg mission," Harvey said. Britt muttered a curse under his breath and Harvey felt a wave of dread wash over him, "Is something wrong, sir?"

"Call the radio tower and send the order to abort," Britt snapped.

Harvey grabbed his phone and put it up to his ear, "Operator, connect me with Archbury Tower," he waited, somewhat impatiently, as the operator connected them. "This is Major Stovall. Send an order to Ramrod to abort the mission. Yes, I'll stay on the line for confirmation." Harvey waited for several minutes as the tower contacted Gallagher. "Yes, I'm still here… mm-hmm, yes. Well, keep trying and let me know if you reach him."

"I take it they didn't get a hold of him," Britt groused.

"No, sir. They're still trying, but he's either out of range or his radio's out," Harvey said. "If I'm not out of line, may I ask why the mission was scrubbed?"

Britt stared at the door, lost too deep in his own thoughts to even hear Harvey. After a couple of moments, he said, "I'll be using Colonel Gallagher's office to make some private calls, would you send in some supper for me?"

Without waiting for a response, he limped into the office and shut the door. He eased himself into the chair and pulled the telephone receiver from it's cradle.

"Get me General Pritchard at Wing Command and scramble the call."

He was just as in the dark as Harvey was, and he didn't like it one bit. He might have to use up every ounce of political capital he had, but he wouldn't stop until he had some answers.

 **TBC...**

* * *

 **Author's Notes:**

CIC stands for the Counter Intelligence Corps. They were an intelligence service that focused on investigating possible acts of sabotage, subversion, and allegations of disloyalty. They also did background checks on the military personnel who had access to classified materials.  
In 1943, they were ordered to cease domestic investigations and were shipped to the various theaters.  
In 1961, the CIC were consolidated into the Army's Military Intelligence Branch.

The Savoy is a hotel in London opened in 1889 and is still open today. During World War Two, the Savoy was a favorite among American Officers, diplomats, and journalists, as well as being the common meeting place for many of the Allied leaders.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I do not own 'Hogan's Heroes' or 'Twelve O'clock High', the only thing I own is the plot. All rights belong to their respective owners and creators.**

 **This work is complete fiction and any resemblance to actual people or missions (unless specifically stated) is coincidental.**

* * *

 _Britt stared at the door, lost too deep in his own thoughts to even hear Harvey. After a couple of moments, he said, "I'll be using Colonel Gallagher's office to make some private calls, would you send in some supper for me?"_

 _Without waiting for a response, he limped into the office and shut the door._ _He grabbed the phone before easing himself into the chair,  
"Get me General Pritchard at Wing Command and scramble the call."_

 _He was just as in the dark as Harvey was, and he didn't like it one bit. He might have to use up every ounce of political capital he had, but he wouldn't stop until he had some answers..._

 _ **ACT III**_

Gallagher stared through the windscreen into nothing but black. There was no moon and the clouds had become incredibly thick. They were flying by instruments at a high altitude and, momentarily, they would begin their descent. The navigator would give them a new heading, which would direct them straight to the initial point, or IP, where they'd conduct their turns. The bombardier would take over the plane as it flew over the target and in a few seconds it would be done. They'd fly home and when the reports came in over the next day or two, the would learn their fate… simple… straightforward… no sweat...

 _Unless you miss._

The taunting voice of doubt picked at him as he gripped the half-oval shaped yolk. He closed his eyes and tried to push the voice out of his mind. It had been smooth sailing thus far and there was no reason to believe that this mission wouldn't turn out all right. He'd come a long way since Savage had stuck him in the Leper Colony. He and his crew, his whole group really, were the best in this business.

 _Even the best can fail._

How he hated that whinging voice. It was all he'd listened to when he arrived in England. It was one of the things Savage had tried to pull out of him, like an exorcist removing an evil spirit. For the most part, it was gone, but every now and then it reared it's ugly head.

"Colonel, shall I begin descent?"

The co-pilot's question brought an end to Gallagher's internal strife. He nodded, allowing Captain Gilbert O'Brien to guide the plane down. He glanced over his left shoulder and spotted part of his group. Once they got down far enough below the clouds, he could see the rest of the group clearly; they were all in tight, clean formation. He took control when the navigator gave the new heading. By his calculations, they should reach the IP in two minutes; target area in eight minutes.

" _Bandits at two o'clock high."_

Gallagher craned his neck to look out the right windscreen. O'Brien spotted them first and pointed.

They counted about fifteen fighters, but from all the shouting over the radio, Gallagher assumed there were more behind them.

Komansky scrambled up into the top turret and joined the waste gunners, who were already firing rapidly. Gallagher kept his focus on keeping the plane steady, they'd be at the IP momentarily.

He caught sight of a Fort drifting away from the rest of the group. Calling over the radio, he commanded, "Ramrod to Blue Flanker Two. Ramrod to Blue Flanker Two, you are out of formation. Close up that hole."

The formation was the groups best protection, if the formation wasn't tight enough or someone was out of formation entirely, it left the rest of the group exposed.

" _They got Cortez!"_

Gallagher swiveled in his seat and watched Lieutenant Victor Cortez's plane, the _Tennessee Talker._ She was losing altitude quickly; bright reddish-orange flames lighting up the night sky. Cortez was a favorite among the men, he had a great sense of humor and talked, practically non-stop. His plane was named based on this and the fact that he was from Nashville.

"Come on… bail out," Gallagher muttered, hoping that they were in the process of abandoning the falling aircraft. The _Tennessee_ exploded as it collided with the ground; not one parachute was spotted.

Gallagher pushed the loss to the back of his mind. They were just a few seconds away from the IP and this was when it got tricky. Gallagher called over the interphone, "Pilot to left waste gunner, we're over the IP. Release the flares."

" _Waste gunner to pilot, roger."_

The gunner fired a red flare, followed five seconds later by the second red flare. Gallagher turned and began his run on the target. His squadron, consisting of six planes, was now completely alone against the dozen or so fighters that followed their turn.

The high squadron would turn in twenty seconds and the low squadron in forty seconds. He just had to set the auto-pilot and hand control over to the bombardier.

"Watch out, Joe!" O'Brien cried out as a fighter dove in front of them, shredding the cockpit. O'Brien let out a scream and pitched to the right, writhing in pain.

Gallagher struggled to pull the yoke back and bring the plane out of decent. _Come on, girl, don't jam on me now,_ he begged. It was only a moment before he realized that O'Brien's foot was preventing it from moving freely.

"Gil," Gallagher reached a free hand over to his co-pilot and tapped his leg. "Move your foot, Gil." O'Brien was hurt badly, but still conscious and with great effort, he complied.

After Gallagher regained control of the plane, he called over the interphone, "Pilot to crew, we've taken a hit in the cockpit, but we're okay… we're still flying." He centered the PDI, "Pilot to bombardier, it's your aeroplane. Please, make it good."

" _Bombardier to pilot, roger… Bombardier to crew, bomb bay doors open."_

"Pilot to radio operator, cameras on." Gallagher barked, as another fighter dove at them. The fighters were taking advantage of the fact that in order for the bombing to be accurate, the bombers had to keep their PDIs centered… meaning the entire squadron were sitting ducks for the next several seconds.

" _Bombardier to pilot, bombs away!"_

Gallagher rolled to the right, barely managing to evade the next fighter. Unfortunately, the damage had already been done. The engines were running rough and the temperature was incredibly high. "Komansky, get down here," he ordered his flight engineer.

A moment later, Komansky appeared at his elbow and began to read the gauges. Almost instantly, he zeroed in on the problem, "You've got no oil pressure, sir."

Gallagher glanced at the oil pressure gauge, "Reduce the power."

Komansky eased back the power, saying, "We're not going to make it home."

As if to confirm his statement, the second engine caught fire. Gallagher closed his eyes for a moment in sheer frustration before calling over the interphone, "Pilot to crew, bail out." Spotting O'Brien struggling to get out of his seat with his injuries as they were, he added, "Komansky, help Captain O'Brien."

Switching to the radio, he turned command over to the lead plane from the second squadron before unbuckling his own seat belt. He pulled himself up and crawled to the rear of the Fortress.

"Komansky, I told you to help him bail out," Gallagher shouted upon finding O'Brien and Komansky still in the crashing plane.

"I needed a breath, Joe," O'Brien gasped, "I don't know if I'll be able to jump."

Gallagher helped him to his feet, saying, "You can't stay here, Gil."

O'Brien held on to his ripcord and tumbled out of the plane. Komansky followed less than a second later. Gallagher turned and took a last look at his aircraft before he jumped.

The air pushed against him as he fell, almost like the wind hitting you while riding a horse at full gallop… except much faster. He pulled his cord and after a sharp jolt, he was floating through the night sky. Behind him, he heard an explosion that had to be the Lily. He turned slightly toward the sound, a pang of resentment welled up. It wasn't the first Fortress to crash and burn, and it certainly wouldn't be the last, but this was his Lily.

Well, it was Savage's first... he remembered getting the authorization to rename his plane after General Savage died. The uncertainty he had about leading the Nine-Eighteenth. The pressure that came not only from his superiors, but from the men in his command. How he'd struggled those first few days until everything seemed to click. From then on, the unit moved like clockwork… however, now that he was seconds away from setting foot on enemy territory, none of that mattered. What did matter was escaping the patrols that were sure to be searching for him. He tried to direct himself to a bare patch of ground by tugging the lines of his parachute.

In spite of his best efforts, his chute got tangled in the branches of a tree. Leaving him hanging about twelve or thirteen feet above the ground. He heard the next squadron flying overhead and the fighters shooting at them. He felt the ground tremble with more explosions. Although, whether from the bombs or more crashing planes, he couldn't be sure. He had to get down from this tree.

He depressed the release on his harness, nothing happened. He pressed harder. _O_ _h, com_ _e_ _on!_

He tugged on the harness and pressed the release at the same time, but still, nothing happened.  
 _For pity's sake, h_ e pulled off his glove with his teeth and dug for his pocket knife. Sliding the blade out, he carefully cut the strap on his harness. He was so fixated on getting loose that he failed to hear the rustling in the brush until a sharp order caused him to freeze.

" _ **Hände hoch**_!"

 **TOH~** **HH**

While the Luftwaffe fighters were picking the bomb group apart, the Heroes watched helplessly from the ground below. The camp spotlights swung up into the dark sky and highlighted the parachutes of those lucky enough to escape the falling, metal coffins.

Hogan figured there wasn't much they could do for the poor souls who'd landed directly in Hammelburg, but the small number that landed in the woods could be collected, if they were careful. They just had to get to them before the Gestapo.

Fortunately, the tunnel system had withstood the explosions and the resulting tremors fairly well. The only major damage done in camp during the bombing had been in the guards barracks. One of the guards had been using a kerosene lamp and neglected to put it out before rushing out when the alarm sounded. The lamp fell during the tremors and set the barracks alight.

Hogan used the fire's distraction to enable the rescue. He gave his men a strict fifteen minute deadline, when they'd split up at the tree stump which served as the hiding place for their tunnel's entrance. Hogan and Baker had gone to the left, while LeBeau and Newkirk went to the right. This left Olsen and Carter to go straight.

"Gee, you'd think we would come across someone by now," Carter whispered. It was five minutes until the end of the time frame Hogan had given them and they hadn't spotted a single flier.

"We aren't the only ones looking for them," Olsen reminded him, keeping alert for any patrols in the area. "They might have already been caught."

"I hope not," Carter snorted, softly. "It's harder to get them back to England if we have to break them out of a stalag first."

Olsen was about to agree, but froze when he heard a harshly whispered demand, "Hold it… put your hands up slowly and turn around."

Olsen turned and spoke carefully, "Look, we're Americans..."

"Quiet," he snapped, gripping the government issue, forty-five caliber pistol tightly. "Are you armed?"

Carter frowned, "We _are_ on the same side, you know."

They heard a groan and the man glanced to his left. He shifted nervously and repeated his question, "Are you armed?"

Olsen shared a look with Carter before nodding, "We each have a pistol, but listen, we're here to help you." He had noticed the blood on the man's hands and all over his jacket, "If I don't miss my guess, your friend in the bushes is hurt. We know of someone who can help him."

The man seemed unsure of what to do. His eyes were full of mistrust, but they also held a healthy dose of worry. A pained cry of 'Sandy' from the bushes seemed to make up his mind. "Hand over your guns, butt first," he ordered.

Carter didn't hesitate before pulling his pistol from its holster and holding it out to Komansky. Olsen didn't make a move to comply until Carter nudged him and he reluctantly turned over his weapon.

"I'm going to keep a hold of these." Komansky said, placing their guns in the large pockets of his flight jacket. He relaxed ever so slightly as he waved his gun to indicate that they should move toward the bushes.

Carter spotted the wounded man first. He was an officer, probably a pilot, Carter supposed. He was propped up against a tree trunk, his face gray and waxen. Small beads of sweat trickled down his neck and onto his chest. His leather jacket was unzipped and his shirt unbuttoned. Carter moved the handkerchief that was pressed against his side in a pitiful attempt to stem the flow of blood.

"He's not in good shape," Carter commented. "We need to get him back to camp so Wilson can look at him."

"Do you think moving him will be alright?" Olsen asked, "It might injure him further."

"Well, we can't leave him here," Carter replaced the cloth and added his own hanky. "We'll just have to be careful with him. My name's Carter, Sergeant Carter," he said, directing his attention to the captain and smiling kindly.

"Sorry, sir, this is going to hurt," he added, putting a bit more pressure to ease the bleeding.

The wounded man manged to say through gritted teeth, "Captain O'Brien… thank you..."

"Sir, we shouldn't," Komansky began.

"Komansky," O'Brien tried to make his tone stern, but in his exhausted state it came out as a pained gasp. "We don't have any other options."

Carter turned his friendly grin on Komansky, "besides, you have all the guns."

Komansky reluctantly agreed, with the caveat that if he saw anything he didn't like, he'd shoot first and ask questions later. Carter put his arms around O'Brien's chest, taking care not to disturb his wounds, while Olsen picked up his legs. Together, they hefted him up and headed toward camp.

The German patrols scouring the woods hindered their progress and caused them to hide out in the brush. It felt like hours, but it wasn't too long before Olsen spotted the familiar spotlights.

Komansky was more than a little disturbed when he spotted the camp. "What's the big idea?" he growled, pushing his gun into Carter's side.

"This is where the medic is," Carter explained, lowering his half of O'Brien, who had long since passed out.

"If you think I'm gonna let you take him into a POW camp..."

Olsen eased O'Brien down and blew into his hands. He'd forgotten his gloves in the rush to get out and collect the downed fliers and was sorely missing them now. "Look," he said, harshly. "I've had just about enough of you. We _are_ American and we _are_ on your side! If you want our help then shut up and do as you are told."

He turned his back on Komansky and sneaked forward to watch the movement of the guards. The spotlights were mostly trained inward, but every so often they would do a sweep of the perimeter. However, it didn't appear to be timed in any way. Sometimes it would be every two or three minutes and other times it would be five or six minutes between sweeps.

"This isn't going to be easy," Carter whispered, stating the obvious. "They're not giving us much time to get him down."

"Yeah, even if we managed to get him down they could swing in and spot the guy helping him," Olsen agreed. He watched Komansky wipe some sweat from O'Brien's forehead and said, "I'll go in first and maybe Colonel Hogan will have an idea."

Carter agreed and crawled back to Komansky to explain their plan. Olsen waited for the light to sweep passed and made a dash for the stump. Carter grinned at Komansky's dropped jaw as he watched Olsen lift the top of the tree stump and vanish.

Olsen moved slowly through the tunnel until the dim light was replaced by a brighter, steadier glow of light bulbs. Because of the radio, the radio room was wired into the camp's electricity, while the rest of the rooms and tunnels mainly used kerosene or oil lamps. He heard men bustling about, barking orders, and trying to gain some semblance of order.

"Olsen, it's about time you got back," Hogan said, sharply. "You're almost an hour late."

"Sorry," Olsen shrugged, "it couldn't be helped. The woods were crawling with krauts."

"Where's Carter?" Newkirk asked, his voice edged with minor concern.

"With a couple downed fliers," Olsen directed his attention to Hogan. "That's why I came in alone. We can't get one of them in. He's badly wounded and the timing of the spotlights is too erratic."

"How bad is he hurt?" Sergeant Joe Wilson, the camp's only medical personnel, asked. He was in the process of cleaning a bullet wound on a private's arm, so he didn't take his attention away from his patient.

"He doesn't look good at all," Olsen said. "He's all pale and sweaty. Passed out on the way to the tunnel."

"Newkirk, go out with Olsen," Hogan instructed. "Then I want you to turn yourself in… oh, and be careful. After the fire and everything, the goons are liable to be a bit jumpy. Olsen, while they're focused on him, you and Carter can bring in your fliers."

Newkirk gave a quick nod and followed Olsen back down the tunnel. Wilson, when he was done bandaging the private's wound, came over to Hogan. "We're going to need more supplies, sir. I'm almost out of clean gauze, the iodine is gone, and I've got maybe two doses of morphine left."

"Make a list and Baker can send it to Schnitzer," Hogan said. "He's changing the dogs tomorrow."

"And where is Schnitzer going to get morphine?" Wilson said, incredulously.

"He won't," Hogan replied, "We'll talk to London about a complete supply drop, but being a vet, Schnitzer _will_ have access to gauze, iodine, etc." They heard the alarms go off above them. "That will be Newkirk," he said, "Everybody up top. Krauts will be doing a full count."

Baker, LeBeau and the rest of barracks two took turns climbing up the ladder. Hogan had just ordered Wilson up, as well, when Olsen and Carter appeared with O'Brien and Komansky. Wilson hurried over to O'Brien, tossing over his shoulder, "Sorry, Colonel, but my patients come first."

Hogan bit his lip and decided that arguing with the medic would be a waste of time. So, instead, he ordered Olsen and Carter to get changed and get back to their barracks, before climbing the ladder himself.

Komansky looked around his new surroundings. There was a full radio setup on a table beside the ladder. He spotted several tunnel openings which led off into various directions. He began to wonder just how big of an operation these guys had. He moved over to the other side of the room where he spotted the navigator from the Lily. "Wes," he put a hand on the navigator's shoulder.

Sergeant Thomas Westly glanced up and grinned, "Sandy, it's good to see you! I didn't see you bale out… thought for sure you and the Colonel were goners." He stood slowly and glanced around the room, "You come in with Colonel Gallagher?"

Komansky shook his head, "I was hoping he was already here."

Westly frowned, "I didn't see him come in, but things have been a little hazy." He motioned to the bandage that was wound around his head, "I smacked my head on a rock when I landed."

"Sit down," Komansky urged, "I'll keep looking for the Colonel, you get some rest."

Westly sat back down and Komansky made his way back to the tunnel Carter and Olsen had brought them through. Wilson caught him out of the corner of his eye and quickly intercepted him.

"Where do you think you're going?" he said, keeping his tone as even as he could.

"I'm going to find my commanding officer," Komansky stated, trying to push his way past the medic, who remained firm.

"You can't do that," Wilson insisted. He noticed a glint in the younger man's eye, not that much different than the look Newkirk got when you stood between him and something he wanted to do. "Just think about it," he said, trying to reason with the younger man. "Your commander has likely been caught… probably by the Gestapo. The only way to get him out is with an established operation, which we have."

Wilson didn't miss Komansky's hesitation and capitalized on it, "Once my colonel's done upstairs, he can poke around and find out where your commander is. I promise, but until then your services are needed else where… namely by giving me another set of hands with your captain."

"He'll look for the Colonel?" Komansky asked. Wilson held up three fingers in the boy scout salute. "Okay, what can I do?" He gave in and allowed Wilson to pull him over to O'Brien.

 **TBC...**

* * *

 **Authors Notes:**

Hey, peoples! I'm back from my first summer vacation… Okay, I didn't actually go anywhere, so I guess it was a stay-cation. I wanted to give a special thanks to Tirathon from the Forum XIIIc. Your links to the WW2 training films really helped with writing the action scenes!

Okay, a couple things:

Yes, I know that the phrase, 'no sweat' only dates back to the fifties; however, it is used frequently by Gallagher in the series. So, the anachronism is not mine! Lol

Updates will be fairly regular for the next few weeks until mid July(second stay-cation).

Thanks for taking the time to read.

Cheers!


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: I do not own 'Hogan's Heroes' or 'Twelve O'clock High', the only thing I own is the plot. All rights belong to their respective owners and creators.**

 **This work is complete fiction and any resemblance to actual people or missions (unless specifically stated) is coincidental.**

* * *

 _"I'm going to find my commanding officer," Komansky stated, trying to push his way past the medic, who remained firm._

 _"You can't do that," Wilson insisted. He noticed a glint in the younger man's eye, not that much different than the look Newkirk got when you stood between him and something he wanted to do. "Just think about it," he said, trying to reason with the younger man. "Your commander has likely been caught… probably by the Gestapo. The only way to get him out is with an established operation, which we have."_

 _Wilson didn't miss Komansky's hesitation and capitalized on it, "Once my colonel's done upstairs, he can poke around and find out where your commander is. I promise, but until then your services are needed else where… namely by giving me another set of hands with your captain."_

 _"He'll look for the Colonel?" Komansky asked. Wilson held up three fingers in the boy scout salute. "Okay, what can I do?" He gave in and allowed Wilson to pull him over to O'Brien._

* * *

 **ACT IV**

Harvey had been fidgeting ever since General Britt had shut himself away in Joe's office. His thoughts mainly swirled around the mission and Komansky's words this morning... _I get the feeling that there's something more to this mission. Something I'm not gonna like._

Oh, how right he had been! There was something more to this mission and Harvey was so close to storming into the office and demanding the details. The only thing that kept him in check was his suspicion that Britt knew as little as he did.

When he'd delivered the General's supper, he'd overheard him arguing on the phone. He was demanding access to General Pritchard or else he'd speak with General Mitchell.

General Stewart Mitchell was Pritchard's direct superior and for Britt to threaten to bring him in meant that Pritchard had to be stonewalling him.

 _But why?_ Harvey wondered, _why is everything being kept from us?_ He sat, elbows resting on his desk, and marveled at how such a simple, average day had turned into such a mess.

The phone rang and he snatched it up, "Hello… speaking… how many came back?" He closed his eyes and leaned against his desk. "Okay, send the lead pilot over to Colonel Gallagher's office, right away."

He hung up, stood and crossed the room to Gallagher's door. After a quick rap on the door, he stepped in, "They're back, sir."

Britt looked up and covered his phone receiver, "How many?"

"Six, sir," Harvey said, barely keeping his emotions in check. "Six out of eighteen."

"Gallagher?"

Harvey swallowed the lump in his throat, "The Piccadilly Lily was not one of the six that returned. I had the lead pilot ordered to come here as soon as he lands. I thought you'd want to debrief him yourself."

Britt nodded and motioned for him to sit down. Harvey took the seat closest to the stove.  
"They just got back," Britt said into the phone. "Yes, I'll bring the report back with me. Yes, sir. Good-bye." He hung up the phone and reached for his mug of coffee. He took a swallow and grimaced as he swallowed the cold, bitter brew. They sat in silence as they waited for the pilot to arrive. Both thinking about how odd everything was, in regards to this mission.

About fifteen minutes later, the door to Gallagher's office opened and a lean, young man entered. His face was grim and eyes were tired, but he snapped to a perfect salute. "Major Anthony Plasket, reporting as directed, sir."

"At ease, Major." Britt looked him over before motioning the seat beside Harvey, "What happened?"

Plasket sank into the chair. "What happened?" he scoffed, "it all went to pot, that's what happened!"

Britt cocked an eyebrow at the younger man's lack of respect. Plasket dropped his gaze as he shifted in his seat, "Sorry, sir… may I smoke?"

When Britt nodded, Plasket dug an almost empty pack out of his breast pocket. "Everything went like a dream, from the time we took off until about ten minutes from the IP." He slid the cigarette between his lips and lit it with his worn Zippo. He took a deep drag and sighed, "The Colonel led us down and… it was like they came out of nowhere… Well over a dozen fighters, probably closer to two or maybe even three dozen."

Harvey leaned forward. A frown deepened the lines of his face. "Group Captain Sherburne's report didn't say anything about encountering such heavy fighter activity on previous missions."

Plasket's hand shook slightly as he flicked the ash into a tray on the desk, "Wasn't in the briefing either."

"Then what happened?" Britt pushed him to continue.

Plasket stared passed Britt's shoulder through the window pane. "They knocked one plane down before we even started to turn, but Colonel Gallagher kept going. He reached the IP did his turn… that's when most of the fighters left the rest of the formation.  
They pummeled the first group. It was all Gallagher could do to get them through it. My group ran in second followed by Colonel Dane's group." He paused, meeting Britt's gaze "We all managed to drop our loads. I don't think we hit the target, though."

"You didn't hit it?" Britt slammed his hand on the top of the desk, "all of those losses and you missed?"

Plasket shrugged, "You'd have to check the film to be sure, but there was no massive explosion like you'd expect with a refinery bombing."

"What happened to Colonel Gallagher?" Harvey asked, dreading the answer.

"His plane was in rough shape coming out of the target," Plasket answered slowly. "He handed control of the group to Colonel Dane and then he went off air. I can't swear that he made it out, but one of his squadron reported that they saw chutes. After the third group made it through, we continued, as best we could, to the rally point."

"But only six made it," Britt finished, anger bleeding into his voice. This whole mission was a waste and it wasn't even supposed to happen.

Plasket scoffed again, "Twelve made it to the rally point… eight made it to our fighter escort, but only six made it to Archbury. The krauts didn't leave 'til our fighter friends started giving _them_ some losses."

Britt stood and turned his back on the two majors. _There were no fighters when the English had it… now there are,_ he silently put the pieces together as he stared out the window. _The_ _only reason to increase protection that heavily and in such a short span of time would be if they_ _were_ _expecting us…_

"Excuse me, General," Plasket interrupted his musings. "May I go? My co-pilot took some shrapnel in the shoulder. He's in with Doc Kaiser and I'd like to check on him."

Britt nodded without looking his way. Harvey walked the young man to the door and quietly reminded him to get some rest after he'd visited his co-pilot. Plasket nodded and hurried out. Harvey turned back to the General, who hadn't moved. Deciding against disturbing his thoughts, Harvey went to the stove and set about making a new pot of coffee.

"Forget the coffee, Stovall." Britt said, finally. He reached for his over coat. He hated the conclusions he'd come up with and decided the only person with the answers he needed was Pritchard. He reached for his cane and limped over to the door. "I want everyone restricted to base until I send further orders."

 **TOH~HH**

"Hogan, this is the most outrageous stunt your men have ever pulled!" Kommandant Wilhelm Klink fumed. His riding crop was tucked under his arm and his monocle glinted every time a spotlight swung back over them. "My men risked their lives to put out a fire that could've spread to the prisoner's barracks. But how do you thank us… by trying to escape. You should have known we would be patrolling. Foolishness… pure foolishness."

Hogan gritted his teeth and took the verbal assault as calmly as he could. "It wasn't a sanctioned escape, Kommandant," he tried to say.

"That's worse!" Klink yelped, "I have warned you, Hogan. If you cannot control your men then I will have to crack down." One of the younger guards, Corporal Langensheidt, rushed up and whispered into Klink's ear. He glared at Hogan before ordering all the prisoners confined to their barracks and that all the barracks be searched.

"Now, wait a second," Hogan said, frowning. He wasn't worried that they'd find the tunnels; better men than Klink's had searched without discovering them, but he had put up some sort of protest.

"I admit that Newkirk was wrong to escape like he did, but that's no reason to rip up our homes. The Geneva Convention..."

"The Convention does not forbid a kommandant from searching his camp for a missing prisoner," Klink interrupted. "If you don't want my men to search your barracks then tell me where Sergeant Wilson is."

"Wilson?" Hogan played dumb. "Have you looked in the infirmary? He is the medic, after all…"

Klink stamped his foot like a petulant child, "Hooogan!"

Hogan fought the twitch at the corners of his mouth. No matter how silly Klink looked, laughing at him would not serve Hogan's purposes, "Look, he probably saw the airmen… I mean, we all did… maybe he's trying to help with wounded."

"Hogan, get back to your barracks or you will be in the cooler with the Englander," Klink nodded to his guards, who began to push the complaining prisoners toward their barracks. Hogan protested the rough treatment, but Klink wasn't listening as he went back to the kommandantur.

The prisoners of barracks two heckled the two guards who were more interested in causing destruction than they were in an actual search. Hogan watched them carefully, all while maintaining the casual appearance of disinterest. He couldn't help feeling a bit nervous when they began tossing LeBeau and Baker's bunk, but as usual they didn't find anything. He put a stop to the search when they began ripping up the pillows. A few comments about complaints to the Red Cross and the guards abandoned, not just their search, but the barracks as well.

"Olsen, keep an eye on the door," Hogan commanded before he and the rest of the heroes went back underground.

He threw his crush cap onto the radio table and sat, leaning against the edge. Baker, LeBeau, and Carter crowded around him in a circle. "Okay, fellas," he began, "this is a bigger group than we normally handle. We'll need to keep organized if we're to have any hope of pulling this off."

"We'll need Pierre out of the cooler for the IDs," LeBeau stated the obvious. "But Andre and I can get their clothes ready." Carter pulled a face, but agreed when LeBeau elbowed him in the side.

"And I can start taking names and numbers," Barker offered. "I'll check them with London's files."

"You can also ask our English friends for a parachute drop," Wilson said, joining the group. He handed a slip of paper to the radio man. "I need these supplies."

"No way," Hogan shook his head. "We can't do that, Doc."

"We don't have much of a choice. Captain O'Brien is hurt badly and I don't like his chances without blood plasma," Wilson said.

Hogan thought for a moment, "Perhaps one of us could have an 'accident' and let Klink get the plasma for us..."

Wilson shook his head, "No good, the Nazis don't use blood plasma. Any transfusions they do are direct from one man to another."

"Can't you just do that?" Carter asked, "We have everyone's blood types listed on their tags."

"We don't have the equipment and besides," Wilson looked down and shifted his feet, "I'm just a medic… if anything went wrong..."

Hogan sighed, "Okay, Joe, I'll ask London… no promises, though. They might not want to put anyone else through that meat grinder for just one man." Wilson looked away, but nodded his understanding. "In the meantime," Hogan continued, "You need to go get caught. I'll get you and Newkirk out tomorrow morning."

Wilson mumbled something about checking on his patients before he 'got caught' and left them. LeBeau patted Carter's arm and motioned for the American to follow him. Hogan scratched his cheek, "Baker, get London on the radio and I'll talk to them… remember to ask for Big Bad Wolf."

Baker sat down at the radio and began tapping while Hogan looked over the men they'd collected. Twenty men and over half of them were wounded. He couldn't get them out immediately. They'd need time for Newkirk to make their papers. Besides, the woods were too hot and would remain that way for several days. So, he'd have to find extra rations to keep them long term.

 _That's not even taking into account the leak in London,_ Hogan pinched the bridge of his nose. _We could be uncovered at any moment…_ He smirked to himself, _so, just another day at the office._

"Excuse me, sir. I'm Sergeant Komansky."

Hogan looked up and met the hopeful gaze of one of his guests. Komansky shuffled his feet awkwardly, "Sergeant Wilson said that you could help me find my colonel."

"Colonel?" Hogan sat upright, "there was a colonel on this mission?"

"Yes, sir," he confirmed, "Colonel Gallagher of the Nine-Eighteenth. He jumped after Captain O'Brien and I jumped."

"Are you sure he got out?" Hogan asked. "I mean, did you actually see him bail out?"

"No, sir, I didn't, but I'm sure he got out," Komansky insisted. "I've looked through the men here, but I haven't found him."

"If he got out safely," Hogan exhaled slowly, "then he's probably already been captured, Sergeant."

"Yes, sir," Komansky nodded. "that's what I figured, but Sergeant Wilson said that your outfit could ask around… found out where the krauts took him."

Hogan made a mental note to chew out the medic. _He should know better than to talk about the operation so ca_ _reless_ _ly._ "Look, we might be able to do something, but not right now."

Komansky was silent for a moment, but if Hogan thought he was going to sit back and do nothing … he had another think coming. "If you won't help me, sir then I'll find him myself." he turned and started to march away, when Hogan grabbed his arm.

"Now wait one minute," Hogan snapped. "Those woods are crawling with krauts. _You_ won't be going above ground until we're ready to send you home."

Komansky glared at him, "You might be willing to abandon Colonel Gallagher, but I won't."

"Take it easy, Sandy," Westly said, soothingly. He'd spotted Komansky approaching the Colonel. Knowing his friend as he did, he'd eased up behind Komansky and put a restraining hand on his shoulder, "Colonel Hogan's right, we can't risk getting caught. Blowing their operation won't help anybody."

Komansky visibly calmed, but his voice still held some temper, "And sitting around here twiddling my thumbs will?"

"We have twenty men to get back to England," Hogan said, hoping the young man would listen to reason. "That's twenty men that I have to feed and provide with clothes and papers. I will find Colonel Gallagher, but not at the risk of these men or the men of this camp. You will stay put until you are told to move. Is that clear, Sergeant Komansky?"

Komansky lowered his gaze. "Yes, sir," he mumbled, before walking back to O'Brien's bedside and sitting in a chair beside him.

Westly gave a shaky chuckle, "Sandy's okay, really… he's just worried, that's all… we're all just plain worried."

Hogan dismissed him with a nod, watching as the other sergeant shuffled over beside Komansky. _Colonel Gallagher… London's likely to have us rescue him,_ He thought irritably. _Just add that to_ _our ever growing_ _to-do list._ He went back to Baker, "Did you get London, yet?"

"Yes, sir," Baker stood and offered the chair to his commander. "We're on stand-by while they get Big Bad Wolf." He watched Komansky from across the room, "you didn't make a friend out of him. He's also got a bit of a temper… could be a problem."

Hogan took the seat and put the headset on, "Keep an eye on him, Baker. If he tries to do something stupid, I want to know about it first."

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

Sorry, it took so long to edit and update. It's been quite an eventful July and start of August, for me... but things should settle back down through the end of August - start of September.  
I hope you all are well and that you enjoyed this newest update. I value your feedback, so if you have any comments or criticisms, please leave a review. I read them and alway do my best to learn from them; taking them into account every time I open my Libre Office. Anyway, thanks again... Cheers!


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: I do not own 'Hogan's Heroes' or 'Twelve O'clock High', the only thing I own is the plot. All rights belong to their respective owners and creators.**

 **This work is complete fiction and any resemblance to actual people or missions (unless specifically stated) is coincidental.**

* * *

 _"We have twenty men to get back to England," Hogan said, hoping the young man would listen to reason. "That's twenty men that I have to feed and provide with clothes and papers. I will find Colonel Gallagher, but not at the risk of these men or the men of this camp. You will stay put until you are told to move. Is that clear, Sergeant Komansky?"_

 _Komansky lowered his gaze. "Yes, sir," he mumbled, before walking back to O'Brien's bedside and sitting in a chair beside him._

 _Westly gave a shaky chuckle, "Sandy's okay, really… he's just worried, that's all… we're all just plain worried."_

 _Hogan dismissed him with a nod, watching as the other sergeant shuffled over beside Komansky. Colonel Gallagher… London's likely to have us rescue him, He thought irritably. Just add that to our ever growing to-do list. He went back to Baker, "Did you get London, yet?"_

 _"Yes, sir," Baker stood and offered the chair to his commander. "We're on stand-by while they get Big Bad Wolf." He watched Komansky from across the room, "you didn't make a friend out of him. He's also got a bit of a temper… could be a problem."_

 _Hogan took the seat and put the headset on, "Keep an eye on him, Baker. If he tries to do something stupid, I want to know about it first."_

* * *

 **ACT V**

Bob Kinney crossed the empty street as carefully as he could. London was in the middle of one of her well-known and much despised blackouts. The city, which had been bustling with activity a couple of hours earlier, was now eerily silent. Not everyone stayed home during the blackouts, but those who were out and about were doing so quietly.  
Kinney would've rather been in his hotel room having a nice dinner and then going to bed, but receiving a call from his supervisor had disrupted that plan. Even though the potential leak had only been identified seven or eight hours ago, talk was getting around that there were leaks among the Eighth Air Force. The rumors had even made their way to General Eisenhower's* office. Kinney was told to get a handle on the situation and fast.

 _With the Allies starting the plans for invasion*, the last thing we need now is a break in security,_ Kinney thought as he stepped into Wing Command. He went straight to reception, "Bob Kinney to see General Pritchard… He's expecting me."

The receptionist gave him a stiff smile and turned to the switchboard, "One moment."

Kinney watched her from the other side of the desk. His keen eyes took in her amber hair, which curled under her chin into a neat bob. Drifting down, they took in her slender figure before following the seam of her stockings until it disappeared at the hem of her skirt. _Mmm, that's nice,_ he thought, a smirk forming on his face. Dinner with her would be much more preferable than dinner alone in his room.

She turned her desk chair back to him. "I talked to his secretary and she said to head right up to the General's office."

"Thank you, miss..." he grinned, obviously fishing for her name.

"Corporal Adelaide Cartwell," she said, her tone was icy. She turned her attention back to the work on her desk.

"I'll be up with the General for a little while, but afterwards, we could..." His voice dropped an octave as he leaned on her desk.

"Let me stop you there," Adelaide snapped, glaring up at him. "First, I'm on duty 'til midnight. Second, I'm already spoken for," she held up her left hand to show the small, glittering ring on her fourth finger. "And lastly, I'm not interested in men who can't be bothered to serve."

He hadn't expected to be shot down so swiftly or in such a brutal way. It took a moment for him to recover enough to purse his lips and say, "Well, he's a lucky fella... you have a nice night, Corporal Cartwell."  
He hurried to the elevator, hoping to avoid any further embarrassment for either of them, and stepped inside. "Fourth floor," he said to the operator then maintaining silence until the elevator doors opened on the fourth floor. Kinney went down the hallway swiftly, pausing only briefly at the secretary's desk. When she waved him on, he went through to the General's office.

"Enter," Pritchard responded to the knock at his door. "Coffee?"

"No, thanks," Kinney said, sitting in the same chair he'd sat in before. "Why don't you just tell me what on earth happened? Everyone in London seems to know about this leak."

Pritchard scowled, "They went through with the Hammelburg mission."

"How did that happen?" Kinney growled in annoyance, "and more importantly, how did General Eisenhower find out about our problem?"

Pritchard came around to the front of his desk and began to pace. "Ed Britt."

"Your subordinate?"

Pritchard nodded, "He was concerned about the sudden reversal of plans. He'd been calling here trying to get more information, but I had my secretary tell him I was in meetings." He gave Kinney a weak smile, "Persistence was always one of Ed's stronger suits."

"So he went over your head?" Kinney asked. He dug out a cigarette case out of his pocket and offered one to Pritchard.

Pritchard accepted and continued, "Ed's been in the service forever... he has almost as much political clout as I do. He dug around until I started getting calls from _my_ superiors." He took a drag and added, "received word from my man in Hammelburg, there were heavy losses. I won't know exact numbers until Ed gets back to London. I'm sorry you lost your opportunity to get the spy."

Kinney looked up in surprise, "I haven't lost anything. We'll just use another mission, leak some fake information and see what your man in Germany turns up. The Hammelburg mission wasn't that important."

The door behind them suddenly opened and slammed shut, causing both men to jump. Kinney stood as an older man limped over to them. He glanced over at Pritchard, but he didn't appear alarmed… just angry.

"Just who the devil do you think you are barging in here?!" Pritchard bellowed.

"I'm the one who has to write Max Gallagher and tell him that he and his wife might just have lost another boy to this war," He bit back, his fury matching Pritchard's. "And, from what I've been able to find out, without much reason."

Pritchard dropped his gaze, "I'm sorry, Ed… they shot down Joe?"

"Joe and about a hundred others," Britt stated, leaning on his cane. "The Nine-Eighteenth Bomb Group has been completely obliterated… and you _knew_ it was going to happen."

Kinney moved over beside Pritchard, so he could get a better look at Britt, "Who told you that?"

Britt narrowed his eyes. _He's sizing me up,_ Kinney thought. "I asked you a question, General," he gently prodded.

"I'm not sure this concerns you, boy," Britt ground out, deciding that he didn't much care for the younger man.

"Ed," Pritchard cautioned. "This is Bob Kinney of CIC."

Britt snorted disdainfully, "I had you figured as a diplomatic bureaucrat, but a spook is worse."

Kinney smirked without replying to the insult. Britt glared at him, this had been a spy game and he'd lost quite a few men to it… to say he was unhappy was quite the understatement. Pritchard motioned to the chairs,  
"I think it's time we let him in, Bob. He's already guessed most of it."

Kinney nodded as he resumed his seat. Britt remained standing while Pritchard sat behind his desk. He hesitated a moment, but decided that having answers far out weighed his dislike of Kinney. When he finally sat down, Pritchard caught him up. The alert from Papa Bear about a possible spy, his concern about who he could trust, the plan to smoke out and trap this spy… the whole nine yards. Britt, in return, relayed Plasket's report. All three sat in silence for a few moments.

Britt looked down at his cane and said, "I suppose I would've played things close to my vest, too." he added, guiltily, "I guess I kind of knocked over the chess board."

Kinney snorted, "that's putting it mildly. Your questions, how ever well-intentioned, have made a lot of people nervous."

"What do we do now?" Pritchard asked, hoping to head-off Britt's sharp retort.

"I told you," Kinney said. He leaned back in the chair and lit another cigarette, "We'll do the same plan with a different mission."

"Wouldn't it make more sense to go through the people who were aware of the Hammelburg mission?" Britt said, making an effort to not speak patronizingly. "I mean only a few people knew specifics."

"Oh, sure," Kinney said, "Only a few hundred people and that's just the Americans, then there's all the Brits."

Britt smiled wearily, "You know, for a spook, you aren't that bright." He tapped the floor with his cane, "Bill, your man in Germany said that they were preparing for a bombing within the next day or two."

"What are you getting at, Ed?"

"Just that the information given was only decided that very day," Britt stated. "Joe said he wanted to do it the very next day and I called you as soon as I got back to London… that lets out the British. Joe also wouldn't have informed his men about the specifics until the day of the mission… that lets out most of the Nine-Eighteenth."

"That leaves you, Bill, and Joe Gallagher," Kinney sat up, thinking that Britt might have something.

"The two executive officers and the adjutant," Pritchard added to the list, "They would've been plotting the mission with Joe."

They sat and contemplated the possibilities. Kinney ruled out Pritchard because he'd called in CIC. Pritchard argued that it couldn't be Britt because of all the attention he'd called to the spy. Kinney had pushed back on that, momentarily… but after some convincing, he agreed that it would be foolish for the spy to call even more attention to his existence.

"Joe Gallagher?" Kinney suggested.

Britt vehemently shot down that theory, "Joe didn't _have_ to go on the mission… and if you knew that you were heading into several squadrons of enemy fighters, you wouldn't want to be on that mission."

"Then it has to be either the ground exec or the air exec," Pritchard deduced.

"The air exec was on the mission, too," Britt sighed, "He was shot out of the sky before they reached the rally point, no survivors."

Pritchard's brow furrowed, "Meaning that even if Ed is wrong and it was either the air exec or Joe, then the leak-slash-spy has already been taken care of..."

"Maybe," Kinney slowly chewed on his thumb nail. "What about that adjutant?"

"Major Harvey Stovall," Britt supplied the name, but quickly added his skepticism. "I doubt it's him."

"Did he go on the mission?"

"No," Britt conceded, "but he doesn't usually go on these missions. Besides, Joe trusted him completely."

"He had access to the information and his claim that his phone never rang is suspicious, not to mention incredibly weak," Kinney pointed out. "I think, at the very least, we should bring him up to London to answer a few of my questions."

Pritchard agreed and reached for the phone, "I'll move the Nine-Eighteenth to the inactive list and have the MPs bring Stovall in."

"And the ground exec," Kinney added, stubbing out his cigarette in the ash tray. "Those two are our likeliest suspects."

 **TOH~HH**

Gallagher opened and wiped the sleep from his eyes. He looked around for some indication of where he was, but the plain, gray walls did little in the way of clues. He let out a groan as he sat up, his head pounded and his knee was sore.  
 _It must've been some party,_ his first conclusion being the army stockade, _It's definitely a jail of some kind._ He wracked his brain to remember how he got here, but the last thing he remembered was landing at Archbury after the mission in Duisburg.

He attempted to stand and gingerly placed weight on his sore leg. Relieved that it supported him, he continued looking around. There were no windows, except in the door, and the walls were concrete. He supposed it could be some sort of underground bunker, but that didn't make any sense, limped to the small window in the heavy, metal door and risked a peek out. His cell was the last one in a long hallway. He could see plenty of other metal doors, but the hallway was as barren as his cell. He began to wonder if he was the only one there.

"Hello?" he called, half hoping for an answer and half dreading it. "Is there anyone out there?"

He heard some noises that sounded like a body searching for keys. The door at the other end of the hallway opened and a Nazi officer stepped through. Gallagher's heart sank. It was obvious that he'd been captured, but the troubling thing was that he couldn't remember how.

"You are awake, Colonel Gallagher," The man said, smiling. His light brown hair peeked from beneath is hat and his blue eyes were almost kind.

Gallagher waited until he was closer to the cell door before answering, "You have the edge… You know my name, but I don't know yours."

"My apologies," the polite smile remained in place, "I am Oberstleutnant Harald Greve*. In your country that is a Lieutenant Colonel, I believe."

To be completely honest, Gallagher didn't care what his rank was. No, he was more concerned with filling in the holes in his memory. "Where am I?"

Greve cocked his head in confusion, "You do not remember?

"I assume I'm in Germany," Gallagher answered, hoping the other man would give him a more precise location.

"Oh, yes," he chuckled. "Gestapo headquarters in Berlin, Germany." He sobered, slightly and looked genuinely sorrowful, "You were shot-down."

 _Berlin?_ Gallagher searched his mind for answers, _what mission was I on? How did I get captured?_

Greve smiled that kind, polite smile, "It's not surprising that you don't remember… you were barely alive when we pulled you from the wreckage."

 _Wreckage… I went down with the Lily?_ Gallagher frowned, he couldn't remember a crash and, apart from his knee, he sure didn't feel close to death. "Your lying, I feel okay."

"Of course you do," Greve said calmly, as if he didn't mind being called a liar. "You crashed almost four months ago. You've been in a coma at the hospital until you were transferred here last night."

 _Coma… four months!?_ He thought, his eyes widening in surprise. _I've lost four months worth of memories?_

"I'm sure you must be confused and a little upset," Greve said, his voice soft and soothing. "I'm sure I can answer any questions you have."

"My men," Gallagher asked. He wasn't sure whether or not to trust this Nazi lieutenant colonel or not, but he had to know where his men were and whether they were being cared for. "What happened to my men?"

Greve hesitated, "Most of your group was shot-down. The men have been assigned to different stalags throughout Germany."

"Captain O'Brien?" Gallagher pressed, "Sergeant Komansky and the rest of my crew, were they pulled from the wreckage?"

He looked down, reluctant to answer. "You, Colonel Gallagher, were the only survivor in your aircraft."  
Gallagher fought back a sudden surge of shock which threatened to overwhelm him, while Greve continued, "I'm afraid that we'll have to start interrogation today. Your injuries delayed it, but it is a step that must be completed."

Gallagher's eyes narrowed. "Colonel Joseph A. Gallagher… O-9142046," his voice steeled as he added, "I believe that's all the information to which you're entitled."

He smiled, again, "As you can tell by my uniform, I am Luftwaffe. We do things differently than the Gestapo. First, you shall have some breakfast… then we'll begin."

Gallagher watched him walk back down the hallway and disappear. He stared out the tiny window and thought over everything he'd been told. His group was gone, most of the men in prisoner camps and his crew was dead. O'Brien, Komansky, Westly and all the rest just… gone.  
In a moment of selfishness, he wondered who took over the Nine-Eighteenth. Angrily, he shoved that to the back of his mind as a young man dressed in a plain tan suit stepped through the door. He was carrying a tray with what Gallagher guessed was the breakfast. Another man dressed in an all black uniform, except for the bright red, swastika-emblazoned arm-band, followed him.

Gallagher studied them, as the young man stopped and waited for his compatriot to open the cell door. The man in black hollered at Gallagher in German.

"Sorry, buddy," Gallagher shrugged. "I don't understand a word of German."

"He said you are to turn around and place your hands on the concrete," the younger man translated, his English, though heavily accented, was easily understandable.

As he stood with his hands against the wall, he twisted slightly to get a better look. He wondered if he could take them in spite of his leg. He dismissed the idea when he heard the tell-tale sound of a machine gun bolt. He waited until the door was shut before turning around completely. The men had disappeared back down the hallway leaving a tray sitting atop a small box. He inspected his breakfast which consisted of tepid, watery soup. He guessed it was potato, but he couldn't be sure. Two thin slices of white bread with an even thinner layer of almost rancid butter slathered on top. It didn't look very appetizing, but he was hungry so he managed to choke it down with some effort.

About an hour later, the two men returned and he stood against the wall while the tray was removed. Gallagher was placed in cuffs and pushed down the hall by the man in black. The men guided him down several hallways and up two sets of stairs. They came to a stop at the top of the second staircase and the younger man opened the door on the left.

This was not the interrogation room he was expecting. The room was obviously an office as there were several windows. If the view was anything to go by, they were on the second floor. There was a large desk and on the wall behind it hung a large Nazi flag.

"Ah, Colonel Gallagher," Greve greeted, as he stepped in from a side door. He set several files on his desk and motioned for Gallagher to sit. He gave Gallagher's guards an order as he settled down into his chair.

"Oberst," the man in black objected, a long string of German words followed. Gallagher couldn't understand, but the man was obviously displeased with the order. Greve snapped back at him angrily and the the man in black, reluctantly removed the cuffs and moved back. Gallagher rubbed his wrists and took the offered chair.

"You must accept my apology," Greve smiled that same polite, overly-friendly smile. "Inspector Metzler is with the Gestapo… as you can imagine, he's not really fond of Americans."

"Really?" Gallagher dead-panned, "I couldn't tell."

"Ah, there's that American humor I've been told about," Greve offered him a cigar, which he declined. Greve replaced the cigar box and smiled, "You have questions, as do I… perhaps we could take turns asking and answering?"

Gallagher shook his head, "No deal, you have my name, rank, and service number."

Greve stood and went over to the filing cabinet. He picked up a small decanter and two sherry glasses and sat back down. "We shall have a drink and you shall answer questions," He explained, pouring the reddish-brown liquid and setting the half-full glass in front of him. "After four months, most of the information you have is obsolete." He sipped his own drink and gestured to the files on his desk, "I have this file and it tells me everything about you… there is nothing I do not know."

He opened the file and read, "For example, it says here that you are twenty-six, the youngest son of General Maxwell Gallagher, and a West Point graduate. You became the commander of the Nine-Eighteenth bombardment group after the death of General Frank Savage. You, like your predecessor, have a habit of flying on most missions, especially the dangerous ones." His eyes twinkled, good-naturedly, "that could explain why you are here with me now."

"Your point, Oberst?"

Greve tapped the file, "Most of this information was given to me by your men."

"That's a lie," Gallagher growled, barely keeping his anger in check.

Greve shrugged, "Don't be too angry with them... they didn't have much choice." He swallowed his drink in one gulp, "You see, we have a policy that if prisoners do not give us information proving that they are, in fact, prisoners-of-war," he paused, "then we are required to turn them over to the Gestapo as spies."

Gallagher was stunned, he'd never heard anything about such a policy. He rubbed his knee and thought, _It can't be real… but these are Nazis, they aren't exactly know for being decent guys._

"I personally don't like the policy, but rules are rules." He turned the page and continued reading, "We have information regarding most of your missions. The last one caused quite an embarrassment to your side."

Gallagher frowned, t _he mission in Duisburg?_ He almost asked, but hesitated, _what's his game? What does he hope to find out?_ Aloud, he played coy, "I thought it went well."

"Went well?" Greve said, raising his eyebrows in surprise. "I would hardly call the complete destruction of a prisoner of war camp, containing hundreds of my own comrades, a job well done," he gave Gallagher a look that sent chill down the American's spine. "I'm sorry, Colonel, but in your country, you are considered a murderer."

* * *

*General Eisenhower - Okay, obviously everyone knows that Eisenhower is a real person. He was the Supreme Commander during WW2 (from late 1943 to the end) and years later became President.  
* Operation Overlord (the allied invasion) was being planed for the past couple of years and the draft plan was accepted at the Quebec Conference in August of 1943.  
*Oberstlutnant Greve is a fictitious character, but he is based(in part) on a real person. Hanns Scharff, a Nazi interrogator, who is credited with inventing many successful interrogation techniques, which he taught to the U.S. after the war. I have not based Greve personally on Scharff (as in his character or persona), but I have used some of his techniques in the story.


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: I do not own 'Hogan's Heroes' or 'Twelve O'clock High', the only thing I own is the plot. All rights belong to their respective owners and creators.**

 **This work is complete fiction and any resemblance to actual people or missions (unless specifically stated) is coincidental.**

* * *

 _Greve tapped the file, "Most of this information was given to me by your men."_

 _"That's a lie," Gallagher growled, barely keeping his anger in check._

 _Greve shrugged, "Don't be too angry with them... they didn't have much choice." He swallowed his drink in one gulp, "You see, we have a policy that if prisoners do not give us information proving that they are, in fact, prisoners-of-war," he paused, "then we are required to turn them over to the Gestapo as spies."_

 _Gallagher was stunned, he'd never heard anything about such a policy. He rubbed his knee and thought, It can't be real… but these are Nazis, they aren't exactly know for being decent guys._

 _"I personally don't like the policy, but rules are rules." He turned the page and continued reading, "We have information regarding most of your missions. The last one caused quite an embarrassment to your side."_

 _Gallagher frowned, the mission in Duisburg? He almost asked, but hesitated, what's his game? What does he hope to find out? Aloud, he played coy, "I thought it went well."_

 _"Went well?" Greve said, raising his eyebrows in surprise. "I would hardly call the complete destruction of a prisoner of war camp, containing hundreds of my own comrades, a job well done," he gave Gallagher a look that sent chill down the American's spine. "I'm sorry, Colonel, but in your country, you are considered a murderer."_

 ** _ACT VI_**

"Colonel Hogan?"

Hogan opened his eyes at the melodic sound of Hilda's delicately accented voice. He pushed his crush cap out of his eyes and stretched. He'd given in to some much needed sleep as he sat in the outer office of the kommandantur.

Most of the night before had been spent arranging for the parachute drop. As he'd suspected, Big Bad Wolf was reluctant to send another group; but in the end, finally agreed to an indirect drop.

London scheduled it for that night at Bad Orb, about thirty miles northwest. Hogan had Baker contact the Underground to alert them and arrange pick-up. With any luck, Wilson would have the blood plasma by the next morning. He'd also instructed Baker tap out messages to their contacts in Hammelburg; telling them keep their eyes and ears open for any information on a captured American colonel.

The rest of the overnight consisted of the rather tedious work of cross-checking names and service numbers with London's files. They hadn't taken a break until forced to by the morning roll call. Afterwards, Hogan allowed his men to lay down for the few hours until lunch. He'd just settled into his own bunk, when Schultz rousted him out. An order from the Kommandant; the Senior Prisoner of War Officer was to report to his office immediately. Once Hogan made it to the Kommandantur, however, Klink became suspiciously busy and requested that Hogan wait.

"Is his highness ready to see me now?" Hogan asked, not even trying to keep the annoyance out of his voice. He gently massaged the kinks out of his neck as Hilda nodded.

"He said he's let you sweat long enough," she said, her smile wide and eyes twinkling.

He pouted playfully, "I'm glad one of us finds it funny."

"He is playing your game, is he not?" she questioned innocently. She sashayed back to her desk, smoothed her skirt and sat down behind her typewriter.

Hogan smoothed his shirt, tucking it in tighter to his waistband then zipped his jacket before following her. He pretended to take great interest in the form she was diligently typing up. Leaning down to whisper next to her ear, he said, "and what game is that?"

Without stopping her typing, she gave him a sideways look and opened her mouth to reply. The door to Klink's office opened and its owner stuck his balding head out. "Hogan, will you stop bothering my secretary and get in here?" he grumbled, "I don't have all day."

Hilda giggled softly behind her hand while Hogan sighed, rolled his eyes and straightened. He gave the secretary a wink. A quick 'see you later, honey' was tossed over his shoulder as he walked into Klink's office. The German sat behind the desk, polishing his monocle. Hogan shut the door behind him and took the seat opposite Klink's. He shifted into a relaxed position, bringing up his right ankle and resting it on his knee, "well now, what can I do for you, Kommandant?"

Klink replaced his monocle and smiled broadly, "no, my dear Colonel Hogan, what can I do for you?"

"You called me to your office..." Hogan said, slightly puzzled.

"Let's just call it a preemptive strike," Klink said, waving his hand in the air. "This is the part where you barge into my office and attempt to sell me some ludicrous sob-story about how poor Corporal Newkirk was caught up in a fire when he was young. That because he was driven mad by fear of the flames, he tried to escape."

Klink opened his humidor, slapping Hogan's hand away when he tried to help himself, "And of course, you'll tell me to have a little more understanding… ask me to show mercy."

Hogan seized the lighter and held out the flame. Klink leaned forward and puffed on the cigar until it was sufficiently lit, "I won't fall for it this time. Newkirk and Wilson will serve their entire sentences."

Hogan replaced the lighter and wagged a finger at his counterpart, "you've been spending too much time with Hochstetter; his paranoia is rubbing off on you." He tutted sadly, "I should have realized it last night when you ordered your goons to toss our barracks."

"Do not call my guards goons," Klink snapped. Ever since one of the prisoners had let it slip that the American slangs, 'goon' and 'fink' didn't quite have the meaning Hogan had ascribed to them, Klink had hated the terms with a passion.

"Yes, sir," Hogan replied in his most respectful and obedient tone. He gestured to the door as he stood, "is that all? The boys were talking about playing some volleyball and I promised to keep score."

"You aren't going to try and change my mind?"

"I know better than to try arguing with the you, Kommandant?" Hogan gave him a look of admiration as he backed toward the door. "They don't call you the Iron Eagle for nothing."

 _And three, two, one…_ he counted down silently anticipating Klink's next statement.

"You aren't even going to ask for a reduction in Newkirk's sentence," Klink pulled the cigar from his mouth, his confidence wavering. "Or maybe his release in exchange for work details?"

Hogan paused with his hand on the doorknob. _So, that's what you're after,_ he thought, working hard to keep the smile from his face. "To tell you the truth…"

"Aha!" Klink said, smiling with self-satisfaction. "You _are_ going to ask!"

He leaned against the door casually saying, "actually, I was going to suggest you keep him where he is… perhaps even increase his sentence?"

Klink gaped, not at all pleased with how this negotiation was turning on him. "You're supposed to argue their side… present their case," he said, coming from behind his desk to explain the process of negotiation to this uncooperative American.

Hogan shrugged, "he escaped without permission and that's more of an affront to my authority than yours."

"Yes, but you have to defend them," Klink insisted. "I could release Newkirk in exchange for one little, work detail," he added, holding his cigar up in front of Hogan's face.

Hogan pretended to consider it, "I don't know..."

"I'll throw in Wilson, too!" Klink hurriedly explained, "the guards' barracks is in need of repair after that barbaric bombing. I don't think the structure was damaged too badly, but there's plenty of clean-up to be done..."

"Kommandant," Hogan interrupted, "I couldn't possibly consider a work detail without extra rations for the men."

Klink frowned and waved his hand dismissively, "impossible."

Hogan walked over to Klink's desk. Now that he understood what Klink was after, he could manipulate properly. He sat down on the edge of the desk and explained, "Kommandant, if I come back to the barracks with a 'deal' like that, then they'll lose all respect for me. Tunnel digging will start up again… the unsanctioned escapes will become more regular… and it would only be a matter of time before your record is broken."

Klink's eyes narrowed, "an extra slice of brown bread for each man on the detail for as long as the detail lasts."

"The Bible says man cannot live on bread alone," Hogan said. "And just so, they need meat and vegetables; double portions for _only_ the men on detail. I'm sure I'll have an endless supply of volunteers."

"One and a quarter."

"One and a half," Hogan crossed his arms, "and that's as low as I go."

"Deal," Klink muttered, grudgingly. "And on your way out, ask Fraulein Hilda to bring me some aspirin. You're dismissed."

"Headache, sir?" Hogan asked as he left the office.

 _Only w_ _hen_ _I talk to you,_ Klink thought bitterly. He reached for the phone, knowing better than to try and go through proper channels. They would reject a request for larger food rations faster than you could say hasenpfeffer! This would have to come out of his own pocket, but his guards had to have someplace to sleep. So, he did the only thing he could do and called the local market to make arrangements.

 **TOH~** **HH**

 _Murderer?!_

The accusation pounded in his brain. Gallagher stood and quickly turned his back on Greve. His pride couldn't and wouldn't let his enemies see his confusion. The questions whirled around in his mind as he desperately tried to piece together his memories. He remembered the mission to Duisburg as clear as day, then landing back at Archbury… Britt was waiting for him with orders… maybe that was the mission Greve was talking about, but why couldn't he remember. There had to be an explanation… one doesn't simply forget a mission like that... did they?

"Your upset," Greve crooned. "It's understandable, but I'm afraid we must continue. According to my file, the Nine-Eighteenth was going to be involved with the landings at Pas de Calais*. Which were a failure, of course." He laughed before adding, "who knows, if you had been involved perhaps they wouldn't have been so disastrous."

 _Calais… We landed in Calais?_

He'd heard many rumors the that invasion was coming; but specifics were, for obvious reasons, kept under wraps. As Greve droned on about the failures of the invasion and how he wouldn't be surprised if the Americans would began brokering a peace deal any day, Gallagher rubbed his eyebrow with his thumb and focused on the scene from the window.

It was smaller than he'd expected Berlin to be and a lot more rustic. The storefronts were few and clustered together. There were several tallish buildings further down, but to say this was the city of a couple of million people was absurd. Unless they were packed like sardines in a tin.

 _This can't be Berlin,_ he thought, growing steadily more perplexed. _A suburb perhaps?  
_

A tiny, brown and gray bird landed in the tree beside the window and caught his attention. It was a sparrow or, at least looked like a sparrow. Joe forgot where he was and why he was there for a moment, wishing he had his pad and pencils. The bird was almost breathtaking; just sitting there preening himself on the snow-dusted branch. Joe blinked and his eyes widened as realization dawned on him.

"Colonel, although I have this information, I still need you to give a verbal statement," Greve said, trying to bring the American's attention back to the interrogation.

Gallagher ignored him, staring at the bird instead. He had to figure out how much of Greve's story was just that, a story. He also wondered how he could use this to his advantage. _Calais, huh?  
_ The seed of an idea slowly began to take root and he turned to face his captor.

Slowly walking back to the desk, he sat down. "You want a statement, Oberst?" he said, not bothering to hide the scorn, "How about this… it doesn't snow in July. I demand to see my men."

Greve's eyes darted to the window then back to Joe as he closed the file, "all right, Colonel, you've caught me in a few minor… fabrications." He moved around the desk and over to the window.

"I should put up curtains or something," He laughed, tapping the glass with his fingertips.

Gallagher kept silent, his back stiff and unyielding. Greve cleared his throat, "you must still answer my questions, Colonel Gallagher. Will the Nine-Eighteenth be involved in the Allied invasion?"

"Colonel Joseph A. Gallagher, O-9142046," Gallagher replied in a stiff, formal tone.

Greve sighed harshly, "I lied about the date to throw you off… to make you more at ease with giving up information." He paused before stooping down to add, "please, Colonel, I was not lying about having to turn you over to the Gestapo. I am the only ally you have here, don't make an enemy of me."

Though the tone was calm, there was no mistaking the threat. However, Gallagher was unimpressed, "You've lied to me about where I am, the time of year, the extent of my injuries, not to mention that cock-and-bull story about the prison camp."  
He leaned forward until he was only inches away from the German's face, "If you want my cooperation, you'll have to get it the old fashioned way."

Greve straightened and frowned. He studied the slight smile on the younger man's face, the look of control, even if it was only the slightest bit of control. As much as he hated the words, Greve couldn't resist the tug of curiosity, "meaning what, exactly?"

"You want everything I know about the invasion," Gallagher replied, hoping this idea worked. "You let me see my men. Let me make sure they are being treated well, and then I might answer _some_ of your questions regarding that subject."

Turning his back to his prisoner, Greve quietly mused over his options. Sure, the American had seen through his ploy and he now he was the one making demands. _Like he thinks he is the one in authority; filthy, American pig,_ his lip curled up in contempt. He might lose a lot of leverage by letting the prisoner see his men or letting him think that he was in charge… however, this would give him what he wanted. He'd get his answers and maybe even a promotion. He couldn't wait to see the looks on every face in Berlin when _he_ brought back the report with specific details on the upcoming invasion.

"Very well, Colonel," Greve conceded, hardly able to keep the smug grin from his face. "It's a deal. You may visit with your men and then you will answer _all_ of my questions."

 **TOH~** **HH**

According to Hogan's men it was well past sundown… not that you could tell from fifteen feet underground. It had only been two days since they'd been rescued from the harsh weather and Fritz's welcome committee. Most of the men in the Nine-eighteenth had been thankful for the chance to relax and read the few books or magazines that Hogan's men had to offer. Some took the chance to catch up on their sleep; but in general, the cramped quarters and lack of activity were starting make the fliers fidgety and anxious.

Yesterday, Wilson had returned with a British corporal in tow. The two, in particular the Brit, were greeted with playful banter from Carter and LeBeau. The Brit didn't spend too much time goofing off, but rather, he began giving orders to the others. Under his guidance, yards upon yards of cloth were measured, cut, washed, and currently hanging on the makeshift clotheslines; ready to be sewn into civilian suits and coats.

For Komansky's part, he hadn't moved from the stool beside O'Brien's cot, but once or twice in those forty-eight hours. He sat quietly, smoking his cigarette, and watching the men play poker. They'd made the mistake of allowing that Brit into the game and were now losing, handily.

"I'm going to change his dressings," Wilson said, coming up beside him. "You should take the opportunity to stretch your legs and maybe get some of that soup LeBeau brought down."

Komansky dropped the butt of his cigarette to the floor and crushed it beneath his boot. "If you need help..." he started to offer.

Wilson turned Komansky away from O'Brien and gave him a gentle push, "if I need help, I'll use Olsen. Now, go on."

Komansky nodded and ambled over to the pot of soup. He had his doubts, as it wasn't more than broth and a few paltry vegetables; however, he joined the back of the small line. LeBeau ladled some into a tin cup and handed him a small, hard roll. He mumbled a quiet 'thank you' before taking a big gulp. It might not completely fill up a grown man, but it sure did taste better than the K-rations cooked at the mess in Archbury!

He moved over beside the radio set-up. The radioman was fiddling with his radio and the telegraph key, obviously taking and sending messages. Komansky settled down to the floor and attempted a bite of roll. Finding it hard and tough, he dropped it into his soup to soften. As he waited, he turned his attention to the poker game. He was just in time to see Hopper, one of his fellow sergeants, lay down a hand of three aces. He was about to pull in the pot – almost two dozen cigarettes and three books of matches – when Newkirk dropped his cards.

"Sorry," he grinned, "flush beats three of a kind."

Hopper leaned back against the wall and stared at the Brit in a mixture of amazement and annoyance, "well, I'll be damned if you haven't cleaned me out."

Newkirk stacked the cigarettes and match books in front of him. "Oh, come on! Surely, you've got something else to bet with?" He eyed the gold watch on Hoppers wrist. It was much nicer than the green, cloth-band watches he usually collected in poker games

"Not anything I could bear to lose." Hopper replied as he pulled the sleeve down over the trinket. He stood and chuckled, "I should have saved one 'cause I could really use a cigarette now."

Newkirk handed him one, "Here, never let it be said that Peter Newkirk was a hard man."

Hopper accepted with a word of thanks. He lit it and caught sight of Komansky, "now, he'd give you a run for your money. Sandy's the best player in our unit."

Newkirk glanced at the baby-faced sergeant and a smirk appeared on his face, "once knew a bird named Sandy… a right looker she was."

Komansky pushed down the resentment that built up every time that crack was made. Quietly, he set the mug down and joined Hopper at the table. He pulled out his pack and dropped it on the table before swinging his right leg over the ammo box that Hopper had been using as a seat. "What's the game?" he asked, casually.

Newkirk shuffled the cards, deftly before tossing some of his winnings into the center of the table. "You pick," he said, "ante is two chips."

Komansky slid two cigarettes in and said, "let's keep it simple… Five-card draw, deuces wild?"

Newkirk nodded and dealt the cards around the table. They played three games, with Komansky winning them all as the rest of the men, both POWs and fliers, gathered to watch. Newkirk won the next four, as the other players bowed out.

"Looks like it's just the two of us," Newkirk said cheerfully as he gathering the cards and his chips. "Ante up?"

Komansky pushed the two cigarettes forward, "just deal."

Newkirk dealt the cards and began to pick his up, when Komansky grabbed his arm. "You're cheating," he accused, his voice threateningly low.

"Take it easy, mate," the Brit smirked without missing a beat. "Just cause you hit a spot of bad luck…"

"I'm not your 'mate' and luck has nothing to do with it," he growled. "You spent most of the games before I joined leafing the cards. After you started losing, you switched to an overhand deal and stacked the deck." Newkirk's eyes narrowed as he continued, "How much do you wanna bet that when I flip your cards over, I find a whole lotta aces and deuces?"

"And if you're wrong?" Newkirk asked, evenly.

"If I'm wrong," Komansky said, flipping over the first card, the Ace of Diamonds. "I'll give you the rest of my chips..." he flipped the second card, another ace, "and apologize." He flipped the next two cards, both deuces, and Newkirk began to squirm.

"If you admit to the cheating," Komansky said with his fingers hovering over the last card. "I might not give you a licking."

Newkirk stiffened and lifted his head defiantly as Komansky waited. He looked around the room, sizing up the men on his side and the men on Komansky's side. After a brief calculation, he leaned closer to the American and whispered, "sod off,"

Newkirk shoved Komansky backward off the ammo box. The rest of the men backed up, staying clear of the blossoming fight, while at the same time beginning to take bets. Komansky jumped to his feet and charged at Newkirk striking him in the chin.

Newkirk wrapped him up in a tight hug and backed him into the wall. Komansky attempted to wriggle out of his grasp, but failing that, settled for taking Newkirk's feet out from under him.

The two fell to the floor and rolled in the dirt. Each one landed several decent blows on the other as yells of, 'get him, Sandy' and 'stay on top of him, Peter', came from the spectators.

When the brawling men bumped into the table causing the radio to teeter. Baker pulled the headset from his ears and jumped to his feet. "You're going to break something," he barked. When they continued unfazed by his shouts, he stepped forward and tried to physically pull them apart. This only gained him an elbow to the jaw, which sent him stumbling back into the arms of Colonel Hogan.

Hogan, who had just come back from the meeting at Bad Orb, was dressed in dark clothing and his face was blacked out with grease. He set Baker upright and stepped toward the circle of men. After he pulled the first couple of men aside, the rest noticed his arrival and quickly backed away from the fight.

Hogan grabbed a hold of Newkirk's arm and pulled him off of Komansky. Hopper helped his friendup keeping one hand on his shoulder and the other at his waist to steady and restrain him.

"You two keep that up and you're liable to bring the roof down on our heads, not to mention the goons," Hogan said, sharply. "What happened?"

Newkirk, his lip split and eye starting to swell, shrugged. Hogan turned to Komansky, whose nose was obviously broken, but he too remained silent. Finally, after a moment or two of strained silence, Hopper cleared his throat, "if I may, sir… Corporal Newkirk and Sandy were having a disagreement about a card game."

"Who threw the first punch?" Hogan asked.

Hopper shifted uncomfortably, not wanting to get either man in trouble. "Well, uh…"

"I did," Komansky finally admitted after the silence became unbearable. "I accused Corporal Newkirk of cheating, he gave me a push, and I decked him."

Hogan looked to Newkirk for confirmation and the Brit nodded once. "How do you know he was cheating?" Hogan asked Komansky. "Maybe you just aren't as good a player as you thought."

"I make no brags about my ability," Komansky hissed through clenched teeth. "But I do know that when a player switches shuffling style, it's not just because his hands get tired. That last card is an ace... I'd stake my reputation on it."

Hogan held eye contact with the Sergeant for a moment before glancing over at their make-shift table, which – amazingly- had remained unscathed during the melee. He picked up the last card from the table. "This card?" he asked. Komansky nodded and Hogan held it out to him, "it's the Queen of Hearts."

Komansky's jaw went slack as he took the card, "but… I could have sworn he…"

Newkirk crossed his arms over his chest, smugly. "I'll take that apology now, _mate_ ," he said, adding extra emphasis to the last word.

Komansky fingered the card and looked at his feet, "I'm sorry, Corporal… I – uh, was wrong."

"Okay," Hogan said, before Newkirk had the chance to gloat. "We just brought in the plasma for Captain O'Brien and Wilson's giving it to him now. Sergeant, why don't you go give him a hand and, when he's done, get your nose taken care of?"

Hopper followed Komansky as he shuffled over to the other side of the room. Hogan took in the rest of the men and raised his voice, "you're all going to be here for the next few days, maybe even a few weeks. I suggest… no, make that an order, that you keep your card games bet-free. Newkirk, come with me." The last part he tacked on as he headed toward the changing rooms.

Hogan sat down on the bench and began to untie his shoes. His uniform hung on a peg beside him, right where he'd left it earlier that evening. "So," he started by pointing to Newkirk's hands, "are you still able to forge?"

Newkirk flexed the bruised and bloodied knuckles on his writing hand. "They'll be a little stiff in the morning, but it'll be fine."

Hogan buttoned his pants and sat back down in the bench. "You'll spend all of your free time in the tunnel working on those papers," he said, his tone brooking no argument. "But above ground, you'll take over KP duties for the next month, that way you won't have time to cheat at cards."

"Guv," Newkirk's uninjured eye went wide and he held up his hand in an overly theatrical sense of innocence, "I wasn't cheating, scout's honor..."

Hogan fought the urge to smile as he grabbed Newkirk's wrist and pulled a playing card from his sleeve. He held it in up, "Komansky might not have noticed you sneaking the card off the table, but I did." He placed the ace in the Brit's swelling hand, "try not to pick anymore fights with the guests, hmm?"

Newkirk grinned sheepishly, "sorry."

Hogan dismissed him and began to wipe the grease from his face with a rag. He'd do a more thorough washing when he got back up top, but for now this would do. He glanced in the mirror as he turned down his collar. London hadn't been in radio contact since agreeing to the supply drop. Not that Hogan could blame them, they were tracking down their leak; however, they hadn't set up a rendezvous to get the fliers back to England. The Gestapo were still searching for the Americans, but they were beginning to ease up the restrictions around Hammelburg as their search expanded. Hogan hoped to have the fliers gone sooner, rather than later. Keeping the work detail going on the guard barracks, without actually finishing the work, was going to have Klink breathing down his neck.

Once the pressure started, it would be harder and harder to convince him that a forty man crew can't complete the job in a timely fashion.

"Colonel?"

Hogan spotted Baker in the mirror and turned. "Received a transmission from Little Brother," Baker handed the clipboard over. "He said that an American Colonel was spotted at the clinic in Hammelburg."

"Injured?" Hogan asked, quickly skimming through the transcribed message.

"Not badly," Baker shook his head. "Little Brother said that he was favoring his leg, but he didn't receive treatment."

Hogan re-read the message as a knot of unease began to tighten in his stomach. "It says he was with Gestapo agents, but a Luftwaffe officer was in charge."

"Yes, sir," Baker said, crossing his arms over his chest. "Perhaps he was one if the officers Klink met at the Hofbrau?"

"Could be," Hogan mused. He handed the clipboard back to his radioman and reached for his jacket. "The question is, why isn't Hochstetter in charge of the prisoners? They would normally put captured men, specifically officers, through interrogation. Luftwaffe wouldn't see him until he was placed"

"Only because they don't want Klink doing the interrogations," Baker countered. "If they have a highly-ranked, Luftwaffe officer, who is actually competent, maybe he took it out of Hochstetter's hands."

Hogan nodded thoughtfully, "see if Little Brother can find out where they're holding him and I don't mean just the building or floor, but the exact cell."

"Do you have a plan?" Baker asked.

"I'm starting one," Hogan said as he zipped his jacket and blew out the kerosene lamp. "Tomorrow, I'll talk to Klink and see if I can find out more about this Luftwaffe guy."

* * *

 _*Pas de Calais is a town on the coast of France and was one of the locations used in Operation Fortitude. Operation Fortitude was a deception strategy used to draw the Nazis away from Normandy. The Nazis were supposed to believe that the landings at Normandy were merely a diversion from the real landing point at Pas de Calais._

 _ **Author's Note:**_

 _ **Merry Christmas, everybody!  
I hope you all had as wonderful a year as I have this past year. I'm working on several new stories and hope to finish them soon. Thank you all for reading, reviewing, and just making my year great!  
**_ _ **As with all my other chapters, feel free to send my any and all comments and criticism you may have.**_

 _ **With love,**_

 _ **Leah**_


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: I do not own 'Hogan's Heroes' or 'Twelve O'clock High', the only thing I own is the plot. All rights belong to their respective owners and creators.  
** **This work is complete fiction and any resemblance to actual people or missions (unless specifically stated) is coincidental.**

* * *

 _Hogan re-read the message as a knot of unease began to tighten in his stomach. "It says he was with Gestapo agents, but a Luftwaffe officer was in charge."_

 _"Yes, sir," Baker said, crossing his arms over his chest. "Perhaps he was one if the officers Klink met at the Hofbrau?"_

 _"Could be," Hogan mused. He handed the clipboard back to his radioman and reached for his jacket. "The question is, why isn't Hochstetter in charge of the prisoners? They would normally put captured men, specifically officers, through interrogation. Luftwaffe wouldn't see him until he was placed"_

 _"Only because they don't want Klink doing the interrogations," Baker countered. "If they have a highly ranked, Luftwaffe officer, who is actually competent, maybe he took it out of Hochstetter's hands."_

 _Hogan nodded thoughtfully, "See if Little Brother can find out where they're holding him and I don't mean just the building or floor, but the exact cell."_

 _"Do you have a plan?" Baker asked._

 _"I'm starting one," Hogan said as he zipped his jacket and blew out the kerosene lamp. "Tomorrow, I'll talk to Klink and see if I can find out more about this Luftwaffe guy."_

 _ **ACT VII**_

Harvey sat in the cold, dank room where the military police had deposited him the day before. He unconsciously drummed his fingers on the metal table as he tried to think of something… anything, other than worrying. He stood and paced the length of the room. Surely, there was a logical explanation for this.  
 _Could this – whatever this was – be the reason for General Britt's sudden departure from Archbury? Could it have something to do with the abrupt change in plans, resulting in the order to abort?  
_ Harvey gave his musings a rest as he stopped in front of the mirror; briefly wondering if it was one of those transparent mirrors where someone could observe him without his knowledge. If that was the case, he wondered who was on the other side of the glass. _None of this makes any sense! Think you fool,_ he berated himself for the millionth time.

The door opened and Harvey glanced up. In the mirror, he spotted a younger man. He stepped through the doorway carrying a thin folder, which he placed on the table. "Good morning," he said, "I trust that you've been treated well?"

Harvey gave a slight nod, "tolerably. What's going on? Why am I here?"

The man sat down at the table. "My name is Robert Kinney," he pointed toward the chair on the opposite side of the table, "take a seat, Major Stovall."

Harvey hesitated a moment before deciding to cooperate. He was innocent of any wrongdoing and he knew it. It wouldn't be hard to convince Kinney… at least that's what he told himself.

"I have just spent the last fifteen hours speaking with the ground exec and he's assured me that he had nothing to do with it," Kinney paused to offer Stovall a cigarette from a long, silver case. When Harvey declined, he took one for himself before placing the case back in his pocket. "This leaves you as my only suspect. Why don't you save me a lot of time and confess right here and now?"

Harvey's brows furrowed together in confusion. "I don't understand," he said, shaking his head. "Suspect? Confess to what?"

"Treason," Kinney replied, coolly.

"Treason?!" Harvey exclaimed in disbelief and leaned forward. "What are you talking about?"

Kinney lit his cigarette and drew in a deep breath of smoke. "Major Stovall, how long have you been passing information to the Nazis?"

"I have not passed..." Harvey began only to be cut off.

"Who is your contact?"

"I don't..."

"Where is he located?"

"Look..."

"Major Stovall, are you working alone or is there someone else embedded in the Nine-eighteenth?"

Harvey stood, pointing his finger at Kinney, "you listen here, I am a loyal officer of United States Army. I fought in the last war and I have a son in this one. I would never do anything that might endanger him or any other American's life, nor would I do _anything_ to betray my country." He paused for a quick breath and let the calm, rational lawyer in him surface, "if you have any evidence to the contrary, I want you to produce it… _now_."

Kinney glanced toward the mirror, smoking thoughtfully. "Please… sit back down, Major."

Harvey followed Kinney's gaze toward the mirror over his shoulder and before sitting back down.

"I'm not inclined to believe you," Kinney began, "you see, last night's mission in Hammelburg was quite the disaster; costly in both lives and equipment. However, when the English had the mission, they didn't have such losses. Do you know why that is?"

Harvey crossed his arms over his chest and shrugged, "they anticipated that we would return. It does happen, you know."

"Of course it does," Kinney agreed. "But that's not what happened. An underground contact received information that the Nazis were expecting a bombing raid on the very day it was scheduled. So, either Hitler's astrologer really has something or they were _told_ to expect a raid."

"A spy?"

Kinney nodded, "We narrowed it down to four suspects. Colonel Gallagher, he'd have complete access to the information."

"Joe lost a brother to this war," Harvey defended. "He has another one in Italy, plus his father is a high-ranking officer. Even if you could convince me that he would betray his country – which you can't – I would never believe that he could betray his family like that."

Kinney grinned, "I'd already eliminated the Colonel, but I'll file that vote of confidence away. The air exec was another suspect that we dismissed. Leaving us with you and the ground exec as the only ones with specific knowledge of the raid."  
"My money is on you," he added cheerfully. "That story about the phone not ringing is pure malarkey…"

"But it didn't," Harvey insisted stubbornly.

"Right," Kinney nodded, mockingly. "but it worked just fine when you called the control tower? I think you knew that it was a call to abort and I think you knew that you couldn't have Gallagher coming back."

"Joe is my friend," Harvey growled, "why wouldn't I want him to come back?"

Kinney stood and made his way to the mirror. "From everything I've heard about Joe Gallagher, he isn't a fool," he began to adjust his tie. "It wouldn't take him long to figure out that you were the leak."

"You think I deliberately sent a hundred and eighty men into certain death," Harvey swiveled in his chair to stare at Kinney's back, "just to save my own skin because I'm a Nazi sympathizer?"

Kinney pretended to focus on slicking back his hair, but actually studied Stovall's face carefully. The Major was genuinely upset. _There's no way he's that good of an actor._ He sighed in frustration. _Damn, I've eliminated all my suspects._ He cleared his throat as he re-took his seat, "if it wasn't you, then who was it? No one else knew the date of the raid..."

"I don't know," Harvey said.

"Surely, there must be someone who sticks out? Someone who wasn't at all pleased with the mission or who'd voiced sympathies for our enemies?"

"No spy worth his salt would be dumb enough to voice Nazi sympathies," Harvey shook his head; there was something he couldn't quite remember… something… He snapped his fingers, "Sherburne!"

Kinney frowned with a quick look to the mirror, "Sherburne?"

"Group Captain Sherburne," Harvey explained. "He's with the RAF—led the missions before Joe took over. General Britt sent him down from London to help Joe plan the mission. As a matter of fact, he was against the mission from the beginning… even threatened Joe after the mission briefing; said it would never go off."

"Sherburne, huh…" Kinney grabbed his folder and began to leave. "I'll look into this, but you'll have to remain here for the time being. I'll have someone bring you some lunch." he noticed the stubble on the officer's cheek and added, "a razor, too."

Harvey didn't have a chance to protest before the door closed and Kinney was gone. He sighed, settling down in the chair and counting the gray bricks on the wall, hoping that this wouldn't be a long wait.

 **TOH~HH**

Klink paced in front of the Allied prisoners, who were lined up in his office. He stopped beside his file cabinet, where Schultz had tucked himself away. "Schultz," Klink began his lecture. "Have you ever seen anything so ridiculous?"

Schultz followed Klink's hand, taking in Newkirk and Olsen. They stood at attention, uniforms wet and muddy, but their faces were clear of expression. Hogan stood off to the side, observing Klink's actions. "No, Herr Kommandant," he dutifully replied.

"Two grown men brawling in the middle of roll call," Klink scoffed. He strode back toward Hogan and smirked, "over baseball."

"Oi," Newkirk barked, "it's cricket!"

"Silence!" Klink glared at the Brit.

"Kommandant," Hogan interrupted. "I'm sure that I can handle this matter internally."

Klink rolled his eyes, "Once this matter is reported to me, it is my duty to report it to Berlin." He stepped back to his desk and sat down. "Sergeant Olsen will be assigned to launder and press all of the guards' uniforms to the satisfaction of Sergeant Schultz."

Olsen almost groaned, but managed to contain it, while Newkirk smirked.  
Klink smiled at the Brit cloyingly, "as for you, Corporal Newkirk; you will be assigned to thoroughly clean _my_ uniforms. I want them neatly pressed with only a little bit of starch around the collar. In addition, I want all three pairs of boots shined." He paused, "and, of course this will be done to _my_ satisfaction."

"That's not fair," Newkirk protested. He knew this was getting off lightly as far as Klink went, but this on top of KP duty was too much. "The Geneva Convention..."

"Only applies to the making and/or transporting of arms, munitions, and other machinery for the war effort. My uniforms do not fall under any of those categories. Dismissed." Klink replied without much concern. He motioned to Schultz, "take them back to the barracks and see that they get started after breakfast."

"Raus!" Schultz bellowed, before Newkirk could come up with another angle of protest. He gave the two enlisted men a gentle push, "you heard the Kommandant. Raus!"

Hogan gave them an imperceptible nod and started to follow the hefty guard. As he neared the door, he smacked his forehead. "I almost forgot… I wanted to give you an update on the guard's barracks."

Klink glanced up at him in surprise, "It's only been _one_ day since you started, surely you're not finished."

"Oh no, sir," Hogan laughed. "You see, the men have found pretty severe water damage to the lower portion of the opposite wall." Hogan watched as Klink's forehead creased in confusion. He hurried to add, "Probably due to extinguishing the fire and of course, we'll have to completely tear down that wall along with the other two… so, we might as well just level the building and start from scratch."

Klink groaned, "how long will that take?"

"I'm not sure," Hogan pointed and Klink turned his chair to follow his arm. "Carter has taken over the job as foreman. He's assured me that he worked construction one summer, so he has the most experience." While the Kommandant's back was turned, Hogan slid the pin from the hinge and opened the back of the humidor. He selected three cigars and placed them in his breast-pocket. "I just wanted to let you know so that you can explain it to the new kommandant," he said, carefully replacing the pin.

Klink dropped his head in his hand, mind swirling at the thought of paying for enough food to feed that many men for that long. Perhaps he should try to renegotiate… once Hogan knew what a financial strain he was putting on the camp and himself, he would have to lighten the deal.

Hogan frowned. Klink was so lost in thought that he hadn't even heard his casual slip. "I said," he raised his voice, sat on the edge of the desk, and poked Klink's arm, "you'll have to explain it to the new kommandant."

Klink grunted and blinked up at him, "What did you say?"

"The new kommandant," Hogan repeated, "you'll have to explain what our deal was and why the job will take longer than originally stated."

Klink stood and removed his monocle. "You've heard something?" he asked. A slight tremor in his voice belied his cool demeanor. "What have you heard?"

Hogan patted him on the back. "It's all right, sir, I'm sure they'll give you another camp," he bit his lip and glanced toward the window, so Klink couldn't see his face. "I just hope the new kommandant is as fair and decent as you've been."

"Hogan," Klink snapped, desperately before collecting himself. He smoothed the pockets on his uniform and said slowly, "whatever you have heard is malicious gossip and will go no further, is that clear?"

"Yes, sir."

"Now, if you'll just tell me what you heard and your source," Klink resumed his seat with an air of indifference. "I'm sure I can get this mess cleared up."

Hogan wasn't the least bit fooled. Klink had these mature spells every time he got a new self-help book from the library. With just a little bit more needling, Klink would be back to his old, faint hearted self. He stood and smiled, weakly. "That's it, sir, keep fighting. Right up until those orders come in, you keep fighting."

"Hogan," Klink said through clenched teeth. "I do not have any orders coming. General Burkhalter would never replace me; I'm like family."

"Hey, if you married his sister, you would be," Hogan said eagerly. "That way he couldn't send you to the Russian Front!"

Klink jumped to his feet again, "Hogan, you will tell me who has started these nasty rumors this instant." He punctuated the statement by stamping his foot and punching the air with his fist.

"Well," Hogan hesitated. "I don't want to get anyone in trouble, but… one of the guards mentioned that a Luftwaffe officer was in town and that you haven't received _any_ prisoners from the raid the other night. So…" he trailed off, waiting for Klink to pick it up. How one man could be given the same ruse over and over, without figuring it out, was beyond him. Why, Hogan could almost see the gears turning in the German's mind, albeit slowly… _very_ slowly.

"You mean," Klink, much to Hogan's surprise, started to laugh. "The Oberstleutnant I met in Hammelburg? He's an interrogator, not a kommandant. Why, he wouldn't know the first thing about running a camp." Klink sat back down and began his daily tasks, "you have nothing to fear, Hogan. General Burkhalter wouldn't assign such a novice to this post. Dismissed."

"But, sir..."

"Tell your guard, whomever he may be, that Oberst Greve is most definitely _not_ replacing me and I will receive my allotment of prisoners when he is through with them." Klink gestured to the door, "dismissed."

Hogan's brows furrowed as he backed toward the door, "yes, sir." He gave a distracted salute and shut the door behind him. He ignored Hilda's soft, sultry 'good morning, Colonel' and tucked his hands into his pockets as he stepped onto the porch of the Kommandantur. The sky was clear and the sun was starting to take the edge off the cold, late winter air.

Hogan glanced left, briefly watching the work detail, which had already begun work under the watchful eye of Corporal Langenscheidt and his guards. Scuttlebutt said that Langenscheidt was up for a promotion, so he was taking extra precautions to ensure that no tools and/or prisoners went missing.

Carter, in a rare display of authority, was chewing out one of the privates from Barracks Ten. A ghost of a smile crossed his face. Carter could be the most easy-going fella until he was placed in charge of a project, then he became serious and precise, not allowing any room for error. Perhaps that slight perfectionist streak was what kept him alive while mixing the many chemicals that created his explosives.

Hogan sighed and began to trudge his way to the barracks. He had to get back to the problem at hand. He had little doubt that this Greve was the same man. What were the odds of two men, both named Greve, working as Nazi interrogators? One-in-a-thousand? Maybe a million?

He stepped through the door which Private Anthony Garlotti opened before he even reached it. Garlotti gave him a quick smile and Hogan asked, "where's Baker?"

"At the radio," Garlotti replied, shutting the door all but a crack and directing his attention back to the yard outside. With the men constantly going up and down, it was always wise to keep someone on look out.

Hogan headed for the tunnel entrance, which was open. LeBeau was on the ladder and dragging the large pot he used behind him. Hogan grabbed the empty pot's handle and hauled it out of LeBeau's grasp.

"Merci," LeBeau panted. He wasn't out of shape, but a cast iron pot that big was awkward to handle on a ladder.

Taking the opportunity, Hogan said, "spoke with our illustrious kommandant… We'll have rations to feed them for another few weeks." He chuckled, "as long as Carter isn't too good at his job."

"I don't think you'll have to worry, Colonel," LeBeau said, joining him for a small laugh as he headed for the stove. Wilson had ordered strong broth for the more seriously wounded. "Everything is going as planned and with the extra hands from Barracks 3, we'll have the first batch of travelers ready to ship out once the boche move out."

"Good," Hogan nodded before descending the ladder. He spotted the troublesome Sergeant Komansky immediately. He was pacing back and forth between the tunnel to the emergency exit and the tunnel which lead toward the workshops. Hogan need to talk with him, but now wasn't the time. Now, he needed Baker.

Heading towards the radio, he saw Baker with his head bent down close to his paper, writing rapidly. As he reached the table, Baker began working the key, obviously sending a reply. Waiting until Baker stopped, he asked hopefully, "any good news?"

Baker looked up and shrugged, "yes and no… We heard back from Little Brother and according to him, Colonel Gallagher is being held in the underground cells of Gestapo Headquarters."

"And the bad news?" Hogan asked sarcastically.

The radio man grinned, "that was the bad news. The good news is that Hochstetter is on special assignment in Berlin, and he'll be gone for another four to six weeks. Have you finished that plan yet, sir?"

Hogan nodded, grabbing an empty crate, which had been re-purposed into a chair. "I have it alright, but I'll have to scrap it completely. While we won't have to worry about Hochstetter, we have a bigger problem."

Baker frowned, "sir?"

"Oberst Greve," Hogan said, disgustedly. Baker waited patiently for Hogan to continue. "When I was shot down," Hogan began. "I was interrogated by Greve and boy, is he a charmer," Hogan's voice drifted away as rather unpleasant memories began to assault him.

"Sounds like the guy who worked me over," Baker commented, "Sometimes, he forgot to even ask questions before giving you a sock in the gut."

Hogan shook his head, "no, Greve wasn't that type. I was prepared for that type… what I wasn't prepared for was a best friend."

"Best friend?"

He rubbed his thumb across his jaw, "he was a great lover of the mind games and if, for whatever reason, that didn't work then he became a wheel-and-dealer. He always had a way of making you choose your priorities. I doubt that leopard has changed any spots, not if they earned him promotions. Gallagher's probably been so twisted around and confused that he doesn't know what's going on."

Baker studied the workings of the radio. Something had been bothering him since Hogan had last spoken with London. He kept his voice low so that the guests couldn't hear him. " _Are_ we going to rescue him?" he asked, adding, "I mean, it won't be easy if Greve recognizes you… maybe we should leave it be. That is why you didn't tell Big Bad Wolf he was alive, right?"

Hogan looked up in surprise and shook his head, "I didn't tell Bad Wolf because we weren't sure." He leaned down and put his elbows on his knees then sighed and attempted to rub the headache out of his temple. "We'll get him back… I just have to come up with a different plan."

 **TOH~HH**

Gallagher grimaced in pain as he stretched down into a lunge. He held this position for a count of sixty before he straightened. He sat down on the cot in his cell and rubbed his knee. He didn't like how it kept stiffening up. If he ever did have the chance of escape, he wouldn't make much of a go of it.

Greve had taken him to the hospital for most of yesterday. He'd paraded Gallagher through the bevy of patients like some sort of trophy. Most of the patients had various injures from the parachuting, like broken or sprained ankles, knees, wrists… some had been shot, either on their way down or when they attempted to evade the patrols. The worst of the lot were those who hadn't made it out of their planes and had been torn up and burned in the wrecks.  
Joe shook hands and offered a few words of encouragement to his men. They were angry, scared, and in pain, but the worst part was that there wasn't a thing he could do about it.

Greve had been sickeningly sympathetic. 'How distressing this must be for him to see them this way,' he'd said, all the while assuring him that they were receiving the best of care. However, the man in black – Metzler, if he remembered the name correctly – was smiling proudly. It had taken all of Joe's restraint, and the ever present threat of gun play, to keep him from removing that smirk with extreme prejudice.

Much too soon for Joe's liking, Greve declared visiting time over and he was taken back to their headquarters. Only this time, instead of the nice, comfortable office, he was deposited in a real interrogation room… complete with old bloodstains and broken teeth. As he'd been worked-over, Joe couldn't help but think that whoever their cleaning lady was, she left a lot to be desired.

Today, he'd spent all of his time in the cell. Obviously as punishment for breaking his word about answering questions. He grinned remembering how absolutely furious Greve had been when he'd refused to answer questions. His conscience had bothered him for only a second when he remembered the lies Greve had told him before… All's fair in love and war, as the saying goes. Besides, he hadn't truly lied… was it his fault if Greve got the impression that he knew details about the invasion?

As he sat with nothing to do, but think… a strong feeling of dread grew within him that, for all his lies, Greve had told the truth about one thing. His crew had perished when the Lily had crashed. For, although he'd spotted many of the men from his group, he hadn't spotted any of his own crew.

 _He's still lying to you… none of it makes sense,_ the rational side of him argued. _If the Lily crashed you'd have still been on board. You'd be dead now._

Then doubt – bless her miserable, mean-spirited heart – had to put in her two cents, _unless_ _you_ _abandoned ship; left them behind as you scrambled out of that metal death trap. General Savage was so sure he'd cured your yellow-streak, guess he was wrong…  
_

Forgetting his knee, Gallagher got to his feet and paced the length of his cell… all seven feet of it. If only his memory wasn't so fuzzy… _why_ couldn't he remember?

The door at the end of the hall opened and shut, causing Gallagher to turn toward the door expectantly. It was Metzler, with all of his charm, grace, and of course the schmeisser on hand. Gallagher backed away from the door as the cell was unlocked. He held his hands up, waiting for Metzler to lock him in the cuffs.  
But Metzler stayed at the door and waved him out. Cautiously, Joe passed him and stepped into the hallway. Metzler jammed the barrel into his back to press him forward.

 _This is it._ Joe felt sick. _Greve's gone through with it and told the Gestapo that I'm a spy,_ he thought. He wasn't sure what to do next as he took the long, painful march up the steps.

Should he try to escape? With his bum knee, it would be suicide to try; but he was hard pressed to say that he'd be in worse shape than he was in already.

Pray? He wasn't deeply religious. He had been once, as a kid and even a young man, but after the telegram came about his brother… well, let's just say he wasn't on good enough terms with God to be begging for help now.

He set his jaw in determination as they reached the lobby. _It might be suicide, but I'll have to try._

Metzler jabbed him in the side and pointed to the door leading to the street. It was pitch black and almost frighteningly silent outside. Joe barely had a chance to look around before Metzler gestured to the car parked at the curb. " **Steig ins Auto,** " he said gruffly.

Gallagher opened the backdoor of the long, black vehicle and slid inside. The younger man from before - the one who'd spoken English - was in the driver's seat. Metzler climbed in beside his prisoner keeping the gun pressed into the American's rib cage.  
The inside of the car was plush with leather upholstery, it was almost luxurious. Ten times more luxurious than the jeeps used in London. Joe almost felt honored to be riding in this to... wherever they planned to shoot him. He chuckled at how ridiculous that thought sounded, earning him a sharp jab from Metzler's gun.

Because there were no other cars or people on the streets, they reached their destination quickly. One of the tall buildings he'd spotted from the window and had passed during the trip to the hospital. The driver opened Gallagher's door and told him to get out. Gallagher tried to read the sign above the doors, but he was promptly escorted up the steps and through the doors. To his surprise and confusion, it appeared to be a dimly lit, hotel lobby. Dark curtains hung over the windows to keep light from seeping outside. The usual desk sat to the left of the door with the key cubby and a small switchboard behind it. Out of habit, Gallagher turned toward the front desk.

"Pardon, Colonel," the young driver said, "Oberst Greve is waiting for you in the dining room."

Metzler pointed his gun toward a doorway across the lobby. Gallagher crossed the room and entered the equally small, but brighter cafe. There were about ten tables in total and only three were in use. Greve was sitting smack in the middle, as if he wanted to be the first thing seen as you stepped in. To add to his surprise, Greve had two women, one on either side of him. Joe walked over, noticing that that Greve's man and Metzler stayed at the door.

"Ah," Greve stood and motioned to the seat across from him. "Joseph, this is Luisa and that is Wilma."

Gallagher frowned at Greve's use of his Christian name. He looked around the dining room. Greve's table was obviously set to the officer's tastes. The surrounding tables all had white, linen tablecloths, while Greve's had a dark-blue, silken cloth. The place settings were delicate and intricately designed instead of the basic settings on the other tables. In place of the simple vase of flowers which adorned the others, Greve's table had a heavy, crystal ashtray with a polished brass base. Joe noticed the tray was full of ash, stubbed out cigarette butts, and a half-smoked cigar.

"What am I doing here?" he asked, bluntly and steeled himself just in case this was another game.

Greve smiled, cheerfully and poured a glass of wine from a bucket on the cart beside him. Gallagher stared at the dark, red liquid that filled his glass and resisted the urge to lick his lips. "This is a little – how do you American's say it – goodbye party?"  
Greve snapped his fingers and a waiter hurried over. He muttered something in German and the waiter vanished with a nod. "I find my work here is done and I will be returning to Berlin in the morning."

"I thought we were in Berlin."

Gallagher's sarcasm didn't put a dent in Greve's cheery mood. "Don't be silly… this little hovel cannot compare to the majesty of Berlin," he tilted his head. "But, you would be surprised how many Americans fall for that line."

The waiter re-appeared, this time at Gallagher's elbow. He placed a plate of food on the table in front of him. Gallagher studied the dish, but aside from recognizing a few vegetables, he wasn't sure what he'd been served. However, it smelled amazing and since he'd refused to eat the soup served this morning – as he was almost positive it had been made with either rotten potatoes and/or soured milk – he was distinctly aware of his rumbling stomach.

"Eat," Greve urged as he played with Wilma's reddish-blonde curls. "I don't know when you will be fed next, so you should enjoy it while you can."

Joe went from frowning at his plate to frowning at Greve. "What do you mean?" he asked, ignoring the coy smiles Luisa kept sending his way between her sips of wine.

"Just what I said," Greve answered, simply. "I am going back to Berlin. You're being turned over to the Gestapo for further interrogation tomorrow morning when Albert and I leave."

Gallagher turned halfway in his chair to look at Metzler and Greve's man, Albert. From the look on Metzler's face, Joe figured that last night's session was just a warm-up. Remembering what Greve had said during their first meeting in his office, he asked, "is this you becoming my enemy, Oberst?"

"Harald, please," he insisted, reluctantly pulling away from Wilma's attentions. "And, no, it is not. Since your visit at the hospital, your men have… clammed up. My superiors in Berlin feel that my techniques would be more successful and useful to the Reich elsewhere."  
He reached for the cigar and puffed on it, all while observing how his prisoner ate his food. Slow, controlled, and with as much etiquette as one could expect from an American. "I do feel sorry for your men, though."

Gallagher paused with fork held aloft, "why?"

"They will be removed from the hospital and taken to interrogation," Greve shrugged. "It is how the Gestapo do things."

"You said they would receive the best medical treatment," Gallagher said. He set his fork down and shoved the plate away from him.

Greve held up both hands and tutted, "and they would've, if they remained under Luftwaffe control. Once transferred into Gestapo custody..." he trailed off and scratched the bottom of his chin. "If only there were a way to convince Berlin that my methods are effective; they'd probably keep me in charge. Perhaps if you were to give me a bit of information of moderate importance..."

Gallagher crossed his arms over his chest, "another game, Oberst?"

"I assure you it's not," Greve said, ignoring Gallagher's scoff. He set the cigar back onto the ashtray and reached for his wine. He brought it to his lips then hesitated. "I wonder how long Sergeant Brewer would last under Gestapo questioning," he said before draining the glass.

Joe bit his lip as he remembered Brewer's injuries, a dislocated shoulder and several broken ribs. The Germans hadn't given him painkillers due to a shortage – or so they'd claimed – and the kid was barely hanging on to his sanity. It wouldn't take long to break him and then there were others in the same shape or worse…

"Alright, Oberst, you win," he said, slowly. "What do you want to know?"

Greve snapped his fingers and Albert hurried over. Wilma and Luisa, right on cue, stood and vanished out the side door. To where, Joe didn't know, nor did he care. Albert pulled a notebook and pencil and took Wilma's seat. He told Greve that he was ready. Greve smiled triumphantly, "I'll take everything."


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer: I do not own 'Hogan's Heroes' or 'Twelve O'clock High', the only thing I own is the plot. All rights belong to their respective owners and creators.  
** **This work is complete fiction and any resemblance to actual people or missions (unless specifically stated) is coincidental.**

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Author's Note: I know chapters have been very slow in coming and that makes it hard to keep interest. I sincerely apologize for that. I've had a bad case of writer's block for awhile now and it's not easy to get over. [Posting before you actually finish the story is a rookie move, but I'm an impulsive one by nature] The good news is, I'm seeing a bit of light at the end of the tunnel - hence why I've resumed posting. This one's short but the next couple chapters are longer, so it makes up for it. Thanks for sticking with it and me. Enjoy.

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" _Alright, Oberst, you win," he said, slowly. "What do you want to know?"_

 _Greve snapped his fingers and Albert hurried over. Wilma and Luisa, right on cue, stood and vanished out the side door. To where, Joe didn't know, nor did he care. Albert pulled a notebook and pencil and took Wilma's seat. He told Greve that he was ready._

 _Greve smiled triumphantly, "I'll take everything."_

 **ACT VIII**

LeBeau set down the pot containing breakfast and watched as their guests and the men from camp organized themselves in a neat line. It had been two days since Newkirk and Komansky's ruckus and - after Hogan lay down the law - life in the tunnels settled into a normal routine.

Hogan's crew worked around the clock; though, there were always enough men in each barracks and outside so that the goons wouldn't become suspicious. Newkirk delegated the clothes-making to Olsen's team, while he worked exclusively on the identification papers. Word had come in the night before that the krauts were widening the search and moving westward toward France. Hogan took this as a good sign and prepared to move a small group of three or four out tonight.

The fliers stayed mostly to themselves and tried not to interrupt or disturb their hosts as they worked. What few games that did occur were mostly gin rummy or go fish and had thus far remained friendly. They were taken above ground to get a breath of fresh air every once and a while, but only when Schultz was on duty. Through Wilson's dedicated ministrations, O'Brien had finally turned a corner. He'd regained consciousness and was, for the most part, stable. Ever since the fight, Komansky stayed out of the way of everyone. His pride was wounded and he fussed over O'Brien while it healed.

O'Brien shifted, eliciting a small groan. He watched the man lower the pot as a line quickly formed. A taller, lean man in an RAF uniform, tried to cut line and was soundly reprimanded by the cook in a rapid mixture of French and English. "Who's that?" he asked.

"Name's LeBeau," Komansky said softly, "he's in charge of the mess. Do you feel up to eating something?"

O'Brien sniffed the air and finding the aroma not an unpleasant one, nodded. The sergeant stood and made his way to the Frenchman. The men in line, including many of his own crew, shot him dirty looks at another perceived line-jumper. "Uh, Corporal LeBeau?" he asked, awkwardly. The little cook was obviously close the Newkirk and hadn't been very civil toward Komansky since the fight.

"Back of the line," LeBeau said as he ladled porridge into Olsen's mug.

For once, Komansky decided not to argue. He trudged over to the back and fell in behind the radioman, who was engaged in a quiet conversation with Newkirk. Komansky grabbed two mugs from the pile and stood just close enough to indicate that he was in line. He hadn't intended on eavesdropping, but when Baker mentioned Colonel Gallagher, he couldn't help himself.

"It's going to be hard," Baker said, attempting to keep his voice low. "The Colonel's been racking his brain the last couple of days, but with Greve there, I'm not sure if we can actually pull this one off."

Newkirk appeared unconcerned and chuckled softly, "we've had harder. Don't worry, the Guv will sort it.. he always does."

"But how?" Baker insisted, "and who's to say that Gallagher hasn't broken all ready?"

"He hasn't," Komansky said, cutting in to their conversation. Newkirk turned to see who was behind him and snorted. Baker shifted uncomfortably as Komansky continued, "I know the Colonel, he's as straight laced as they come. They could do anything to him and he wouldn't crack."

The three moved forward as Newkirk sighed, "look, it's not what anyone wants to think, but it is possible. Colonel Hogan is the smartest bloke I know, but even he admitted that Greve got to him."

"Fine, it's possible," Komansky agreed reluctantly, "but not likely… and if this Greve is as bad as he claims, why doesn't your colonel get _my_ colonel out of there."

"Sure, we'll just waltz up to Gestapo Headquarters and ask nicely." Newkirk put on his best posh accent, "good day, old bean… I say, you have one of our colonels. Go on and hand him over, now there's a good chap."

Komansky couldn't help a smile, in spite of the sarcasm. The line moved forward again and he said, "okay, that won't work, but there has to be a way."

"Not with Greve there," Baker repeated.

Komansky fell silent. Everything in him screamed that they should just go get Colonel Gallagher; but that brain everyone kept telling him to use, agreed with the Heroes. Gallagher was at the tips of their fingers… just out of reach. Newkirk turned to the silent yank and laid a surprisingly gentle hand on his arm, "as I said, Colonel Hogan will get an idea…"

"Is that all you do, wait for him to get an idea?" Komansky snapped in frustration. "Don't you ever come up with your own?"

Instead of being annoyed, Newkirk smirked. "You should hear some of Carter's gems," he said. "He wants to blow the whole train station as a distraction."

"Wouldn't that work?"

Baker shook his head, "the explosion would pull Gestapo away, but Greve is an interrogator. There's no guarantee that he'd even leave the building, let alone leave for long enough to break Colonel Gallagher out of his cell."

They finally reached the front of the line and LeBeau ladled the cereal into Baker's mug. He said a quick 'thank you' before heading back to the radio. Newkirk's mug was filled as he told Komansky to just be patient. Grinning at the porridge, his absolute favorite, he said, "thanks, Louis. You're a gentleman and a scholar."

LeBeau pulled a face as Newkirk headed back down the tunnel. He muttered something about barbarians who ate paste for breakfast. Komansky held out the two mugs and the chef glared disapprovingly. "One mug per person," he said stiffly.

"The other's for Captain O'Brien." LeBeau filled the second mug, but the scowl remained. Komansky thanked him and took the mugs back to O'Brien. Setting them down on a cask beside the cot, Komansky helped his captain into a more upright position. He sat down on his stool and gave the porridge a stir before trying to feed the officer. He was met with lips that tightened into a thin line and a firm objection.

"I've been feeding myself for a long time now. I don't need help." Komansky relinquished the mug, but kept an eye on him. O'Brien slurped the thin porridge slowly, "Mm, that's good."

"So, when are you going to tell me what's eating you?" he asked, noticing the the sergeant was aimlessly mixing his cereal instead of eating.

Komansky frowned and explained the current predicament. Gallagher's capture, Colonel Hogan's hesitancy, and more importantly, this interrogator which seemed to strike fear into the hearts of allied soldiers everywhere. "I don't see why they don't just go in and get him. Or if they're too scared, step aside and let me do it."

O'Brien shook his head, "use your head, Sandy. They're trying to keep this place a secret."

"We can't just leave the Colonel where he is!"

O'Brien set the half-empty mug back on the cask and shifted down to relieve the pain in his side. "Joe shouldn't have been on this trip," he muttered. "Colonel Dane was perfectly capable of leading it."

Komansky smirked, saying, "and give up a dangerous mission to a subordinate?"

"I bet even General Britt couldn't have made him give it up." O'Brien laughed. He sucked in a sharp breath and pressed a hand to his side. He reminded himself not to laugh... laughter hurt too much. "I can't tell you how many times I sat and listened to the Colonel argue with some general or other about whether he could—or should—go on a mission."

Komansky's brows scrunched together as something Baker said clicked and pieced together with what O'Brien said. "Of course… he's an interrogator," he said, mostly to himself. He jumped up and looked around as O'Brien frowned.

"What are you talking about?" he asked, wincing as he tried to sit up. He didn't get an answer as Komansky hurried over to LeBeau. They talked for a little while then Komansky disappeared through one of the tunnels. O'Brien sighed and tried to relax on the cot, hoping that whatever his sergeant was planning wouldn't get him into too much trouble.

 **TOH~HH**

"I'm afraid I don't understand," Group Captain Sherburne said slowly.

He sat in General Pritchard's office with his superior, Commodore Dennell. General Pritchard was at his desk, while General Britt stood just to his right, leaning heavily on his cane. A younger man with blond hair, who did not introduce himself nor was he very talkative, sat beside the file cabinets.

Sherburne had been on guard since the reports and rumors had slowly trickled down about the mission; and when the American MPs, along with RAF police, had come knocking at his door, he'd insisted that the Commodore be present.

"Yes," Commodore Dennell said, his annoyance was obvious. He'd heard how badly the mission went and knew that somebody had to be sacrificed to the brass. "What the devil is this about, Bill? And who is he?" he asked, pointing to the blond.

The man indicated stood, smiled pleasantly, and then introduced himself as Bob Kinney before apologizing for his ill manners. "You're here at my request," Kinney explained, settling onto the edge of Pritchard's desk. He addressed the Commodore, "you see, sir, there have been some things that don't quite add up about the mission over Hammelburg."

Sherburne scoffed, "what is there to not add up? You yanks bodged it up and got paid handsomely for it, too."

This earned him dirty looks from Pritchard and Britt and a quick chastisement from Dennell. Kinney, for the most part, was not fazed. "Indeed," he chuckled. Reaching for the cigarettes in his breast pocket, he said, "according to Major Stovall, you were pretty adamant that Colonel Gallagher not run the mission… why?"

"Because," Sherburne ground out, his dislike for the aforementioned officer was plain, "Joe Gallagher is too busy licking boots and playing the mighty hero to be worried about his men or the men in that prison camp." Britt gave a snort of displeasure and Sherburne glanced sideways to gauge his commodore's reaction. Receiving no rebuke, he continued, "it was an ill-conceived mission from the start."

Kinney offered him a cigarette and a light. "And, yet, you helped plan it out, Group Captain," he said, pointedly. "If you were so against it, why drive up from London and participate in its conception?"

Sherburne stared at him in disbelief, "you're really something. You're looking for a scapegoat, well, uh-uh." He started to shake his head as he stood and paced the room angrily. "You can't lay this at my door. You think Gallagher gave my opinions a second thought? No, sir! This is _his_ mess and it's not going to stain anyone, but him."

The room went silent as Sherburne came to a stop directly in front of Kinney. They stared at each other for several, long moments. Finally, Sherburne broke eye contact and resumed his seat. Kinney dropped his cigarette in the ashtray on Pritchard's desk and cleared his throat.

"Nobody is blaming you or the RAF," he said calmly. "I just have a few things to set straight… some inconsistencies, if you will." He picked up two folders and held them up. "This is the report from your last mission to Hammelburg," he said, flipping it open and reading silently.

"What about it?"

Kinney flipped through the pages as if searching for something. When he found it, he grabbed a pencil and circled a portion of it. "Here, in your last report, you wrote that the refinery was located at fifty degrees, six minutes, and thirty-nine seconds north by nine degrees, forty-five minutes, and two seconds east."

Kinney handed the report to Sherburne. The Brit glanced at the paper then licked his lips and squirmed in his seat, obviously not liking where this was headed.

"I spoke with the ground exec and he overheard you telling Gallagher's navigator that the target position was wrong," he said, opening the second folder and circling another portion. "That it was actually, fifty degrees, seven minutes, and four seconds north by nine degrees, forty-three minutes, and fifty seconds east. Can you tell me why that was changed and who authorized it?"

Sherburne took the second folder handed to him and looked to Dennell for support. When he was met with none, he closed the folders and placed them on the desk. "I had felt for sometime since that last mission that the reason we were having little success was that the position was off and I convinced Gallagher to change it."

"So, it was Joe Gallagher's decision to change the longitude and latitude?"

"Yes."

Kinney nodded, scratching the back of his neck. "There's another thing that bothers me. All of the recon films and intelligence gathered on the ground suggested that the first two missions were consistently hitting the refinery too far north." He smiled with satisfaction when he spotted beads of sweat on the Group Captain's forehead. Couple the sweat with the man's lack of focus and constant fidgeting, and Kinney felt sure he was on the right track. "And you can correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't this second set of numbers even further north and east than the ones you used on the previous two missions?"

Dennell grabbed the reports and studied them closely, while Sherburne closed his eyes and bowed his head in defeat. "This has to be a mistake," Dennell said, directing his comments to Pritchard. "I know it looks bad, but that's all it is, looks. Tell them, John… John?"

"I think it's time to call my solicitor," Sherburne whispered, without raising his head.


End file.
